


all that i needed (was something to believe in)

by enjolrasenthusiast



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apartment Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-03 03:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10234631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrasenthusiast/pseuds/enjolrasenthusiast
Summary: When Musichetta asks about Grantaire’s new apartment, his order clutched in her hands like he owes her a tip in the form of juicy gossip before he’s allowed proper caffeination, there are several things he could say. He chooses the obvious.1) His mail has been stolen and returned no less than three times, either accidentally or purposefully.2) The walls are so thin that speaking in any tone louder than a mumble could potentially earn him a reply from the next apartment over, depending on which room he’s in.3) His next-door neighbor has a penchant for yelling creative, impassioned insults at late-night news anchors while Grantaire is trying to sleep.-Or, the one where Enjolras and Grantaire are neighbors.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> back from the dead, with a new username and my first les mis fic! huge huge huge shoutout to [marco](http://minuuki.tumblr.com), who isnt even into les mis but read through this anyway. what a guy.
> 
> anyway, enjoy!

When Musichetta asks about Grantaire’s new apartment, his order clutched in her hands like he owes her a tip in the form of juicy gossip before he’s allowed proper caffeination, there are several things he could say. He chooses the obvious.

  1. His mail has been stolen and returned no less than three times, either accidentally or purposefully.
  2. The walls are so thin that speaking in any tone louder than a mumble could potentially earn him a reply from the next apartment over, depending on which room he’s in.
  3. His next-door neighbor has a penchant for yelling creative, impassioned insults at late-night news anchors while Grantaire is trying to sleep.



Musichetta, to her great credit, ignores the latter and focuses on the mail issue instead. “Have you been expecting any bills?” she asks, concern furrowing her brow, and Grantaire could hug her if she wasn’t currently holding his coffee hostage. He throws a quick glance over his shoulder, to make sure there’s no line of impatient middle-aged office workers waiting on him to free up their barista, and with an affirmation in the negative, turns back to Musichetta.

“No bills, I’m all online or through the landlord, don’t worry.” He swipes at his cup, but Musichetta leans back away from the counter and Grantaire swears quietly under his breath as he narrowly avoids knocking over a mug full of wooden stir sticks. “I’m not dying on my own yet, thank you very much,  _ mom _ .” Musichetta laughs, and Grantaire grimaces.

“Come on, as if we’d need that excuse to drag you back home for dinner. Joly misses you more than he lets on.” At that, Grantaire smiles, and Musichetta lets out a pleased hum. She gives up his coffee,  _ finally _ , and Grantaire drops a couple bills into her tip jar for good measure.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he laughs, and she brightens even more. “I’ll stop by sometime this week, I promise.” With that, he retreats to his usual table in the corner, and Musichetta returns to the register in time to take the order of a harried-looking woman with a baby carrier over one arm.

 

Rewind.

 

Grantaire didn’t mind the new apartment,  _ honestly. _ It was far better than anything else he could’ve gotten on his budget - and without the buffer of three roommates - and he wasn’t about to complain. Still, though, he could count on one hand the number of times in the three weeks since moving in that he hadn’t been woken up in the middle of the night to shouts of  _ go fuck yourself, Lester _ and  _ where the hell did you get those statistics, did you pull them out of your ass? _ It was funny the first time, two days after he’d moved in, when it was only 8 PM and he’d still been up trying (and failing) to make himself a balanced dinner - it was less so at midnight the following day, when he was already three hours into the night’s sleep and looking forward to a 6 AM alarm.

(Once, after a particularly venomous  _ don’t try to distract me with that, no one even cares about Miley Cyrus anymore _ , Grantaire had knocked a fist against the drywall next to his bed and yelled back  _ fuck you, man, Miley is a punk rock queen _ . He got no reply, but the insults on the other side of the wall were blissfully subdued for the rest of the night.)

He hadn’t even set eyes on his neighbor yet, and he knew more about his (almost terrifyingly left) political views than anyone he had ever met.

 

Fast forward.

 

Grantaire sips at the coffee in his left hand, right hand hovering over the sketchbook and attempting to conjure Musichetta’s immense curls on paper. In front of him, the Musain slowly fills, corporate assholes and tired college students alike coming to get their daily fix of caffeine. Grantaire captures them all, sketching the most striking characteristics of each as they wait in line for their turn with Musichetta. So far, his pages have been covered with a businessman’s comically oversized suit jacket, a woman’s gaudy 50’s-esque candy bracelet, a student’s face frozen perpetually in an ‘I-just-smelled-something-rotten’ expression despite the heavenly aroma of the coffee shop. The line is nonexistent now, though, so Grantaire just watches Musichetta wipe down the pickup counter and tries to do justice to the wayward ponytail she’s brought her bushy hair up into.

Outside the window he’s seated next to, the Musain’s patrons run to and fro with their to-go cups, white-collar workers heading left to Main and the endless row of brick-and-mortar office buildings, exhausted students heading right to the library and the local university. He lets out an amused snort as two collide, both throwing out their arms in an attempt to keep the coffee from spilling on the other, instead each losing half their drinks to the unforgiving sidewalk. Bossuet would find it funny, he thinks, as he turns to a clean page and begins to recreate the scene in messy lines.

Once the sketch is acceptable, Grantaire looks back up at the rest of the cafe - the clock behind Musichetta reads 8:45, and like clockwork, patrons gather their things and hurry off to class or work. The Musain empties until the only ones left in the room are Grantaire, Musichetta, and an elderly man with his face so hidden behind a newspaper that Grantaire couldn’t tell whether or not he was asleep.

Grantaire takes that as his cue to pack up his things and seek out more populated skies for people-watching (not that he would ever say that to anyone else, it sounds creepy enough in his head). Musichetta leans in and plants a kiss on his cheek as he orders a coffee to go, reminding him in no gentle terms that she plans to hunt him down if he doesn’t show for dinner in the next three days.

He smiles. “Tomorrow, I promise.”

Musichetta’s grin is wicked, and she ushers him away from the counter with a coffee one size larger than he had originally ordered. Let it never be said, he thinks, that Musichetta is anything less than an actual  _ angel _ . 

 

He makes it exactly half a step out the door before an incoming customer runs head-on into him, clearly looking anywhere but forward. Thick, curly hair winds up nearly suffocating Grantaire, and he stumbles back, apologizing and trying to ignore the fact that he had just face-planted into someone else’s neck. The second he looks up, however, his brain-to-mouth connection instantly shrivels up and dies, and he is left flapping his lips like a fish because not only had he nearly suffocated in a stranger’s ponytail, he had nearly suffocated in the ponytail of  _ the most beautiful man he had ever seen _ .

Grantaire is suddenly both very glad and very upset with himself for stepping back so far, because while it means he can see the stranger’s whole body, it also means  _ he can see the stranger’s whole body. _ His first thought is something along the lines of  _ holy shit I just touched that _ , before he mentally berates himself for being such an overwhelming creep and his thoughts settle on a much more family-friendly  _ he looks like he’s about ninety percent leg, what the fuck. _

Really, he can’t fault himself for that, because it’s not exactly an exaggeration; the man stands about a head taller than Grantaire (which is a feat, considering he isn’t exactly short himself), with a full head of curly blonde hair tied into a thick ponytail draped over his shoulder. Grantaire takes a moment to subtly glare at it - and really, he was allowed that, considering he nearly choked on it not two minutes before and  _ christ, of course his hair would be soft, the asshole _ . With considerable difficulty, Grantaire pulls his gaze away from the man’s neck and up towards his face, which is still turned away from Grantaire.

He feels slightly insulted, because  _ really _ , the guy barrels straight into him and nearly spills his coffee, and doesn’t even realize it?

In an attempt to get his attention, Grantaire clears his throat, and sorely regrets it the second the man looks around and pierces him with the bluest eyes he’s ever seen in his  _ life _ . Grantaire has a sudden urge to drag him down the two blocks to his apartment and mix paints until he finds the exact shade, but again,  _ really creepy, Grantaire, don’t be like that _ . Instead, he blinks back, opening his mouth to apologize again when the man finally seems to register what had just happened.

“Sorry, am I in your way?”

Well, at least Grantaire  _ thought _ he knew what happened. He feels infinitely relieved, though, because at least this guy seems to be human, and not some sort of god descended to earth. For all his good looks, it’s hard for Grantaire to take him seriously when he bodily slammed into someone in public without even realizing it.

“I-” he starts, but is cut off again.

“Were you trying to leave? Sorry, I got distracted, let me just-” He breaks off, stepping to the left at the same time that Grantaire steps to his right, and they’re stuck in front of each other again. A small part of his brain seriously hopes Musichetta is in the back room, or at least preoccupied, because she might be an angel but she’d  _ never _ let him live this down if she saw it.

“No, it’s fine, I was just- uh-”  _ I was just leaving _ , he means to say, but the creepy part of his brain gently reminds him that if he stays in the cafe, he might be able to draw the certifiable angel standing in front of him. He reminds himself, not quite as gently, that he’s been enough of a creep for one day, and continues, “I was just leaving.”

“Right,” says the man, and they  _ finally _ manage to step out of each other’s way. With a last traitorous look at Musichetta, who is quietly wiping down the counter as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and at the old man with the newspaper, who from this angle is most definitely asleep, Grantaire bolts out of the Musain before he can make any more of a fool out of himself.

 

Later that evening, Grantaire is sketching the ponytail and long, long legs of the man from the cafe when his next door neighbor’s usual Insult-The-News-Anchors session starts up, and he sighs heavily, resigning himself to another sleepless night.  _ Teal _ , he thinks to himself _. _ On the other side of the wall, his neighbor is waxing poetic about the merits of free trade.   _ Or maybe verdigris. Cerulean? _ He sketches the rough outline of the man’s red coat, wondering how closely he can capture the exact shade of his eyes with his available paints.  _ It’s basic fucking economics, Lester, _ his neighbor shouts, and Grantaire snaps his sketchbook shut with a whine of frustration. 

With a last longing thought of the beautiful stranger in the cafe, he switches off his desk lamp and throws himself heavily into his bed. He’d have to ask Musichetta if she managed to get his name, when he visits for dinner.

He falls asleep to the sound of his neighbor’s voice through the wall, and dreams of long legs and golden hair and Lester Holt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yet another shoutout to [marco](http://minuuki.tumblr.com), the love of my life, both for being a lovely beta and for getting into les mis for me love that guy
> 
> i think this is the least amount of time its ever taken me to update a fic, go me. i'm on a roll. enjoy!

Enjolras is a great believer in many things - tax reform, universal healthcare, democratic socialism - but he doesn't believe in fate one bit. He tells Courfeyrac this, in explicit detail, the minute his best friend makes it into the Musain.

“That's so  _ boring _ , Enj, you can’t just  _ not believe _ in romance,” says Courfeyrac, with a hand thrown dramatically over his forehead.

“I didn't say I don’t believe in romance, I said I don’t believe in  _ fate. _ Very different.”

Courfeyrac scoffs in his face and downs a gulp of coffee. “You wouldn't know romance if it bit you on the ass, Enjolras.”

Frankly, he’s a little offended by this. He knows romance like the back of his hand, he’s written entire papers on the stereotypical portrayal of it and the way it affects society for his psychology course- 

Well, maybe Courfeyrac has a point.

In lieu of giving a response he doesn’t have ready, he fiddles with his hair, tightening his ponytail. It had come loose at some point, but he hadn’t realized until Courfeyrac had pointed it out. He clears his throat and reaches for his coffee, hoping he doesn't have to pick up the conversation and steer it in a different direction. Courfeyrac is a good friend, he can read social cues better than Enjolras, right? He’ll know when to drop the topic of his rather dull love life.

Or not, because he’s still complaining about Enjolras’ complete lack of “game,” as he puts it.

“Really, Enjolras, you run straight into a hot guy who nearly spills his coffee on you and you don’t even get his  _ name? _ I’ve taught you nothing, clearly, this is such a one-sided friendship-”

“What?” he asks. Courfeyrac isn’t making sense, again.

His friend rolls his eyes and puts down his coffee with a long-suffering sigh. “The  _ guy _ , Enj. The one you ran into on your way here. Or were you too busy yelling back at me to notice?”

_ Right, _ he thinks.  _ But- _ “I didn’t run into him, Courf, I was just in his way. We said two sentences to each other and he left.  _ Hardly  _ fate, even by your standards.”

“You  _ dense _ motherf-” Courfeyrac drags his hand over his face with a whine. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

It takes a few moments for Enjolras to remember, which probably isn't a very good sign. “Three, four hours? I got caught up.” He doesn't say that he was caught up sourcing every anchor’s argument he had disagreed with, but he figures Courfeyrac already knew that much. “I’m fine, really.”

“Right,” Courfeyrac says, and leaves the table. Three minutes later, he’s back with a cup that he sets heavily in front of Enjolras. “Drink it.” 

He eyes it suspiciously, before picking it up and hoping Courfeyrac is as good a friend as he claims to be. With a silent prayer, he tips his head back and downs as much as he can.

Courfeyrac is not as good a friend as he claims to be.

“God, what  _ is _ that?” he chokes out, gulping down mouthfuls of his  _ properly sweetened _ cappuccino. “Are you  _ trying  _ to kill me?”

“Espresso never killed anyone, Enj.” Courfeyrac, the absolute asshole, is actually  _ laughing _ at him. Mentally, Enjolras re-sorts his friendship list and firmly places Courfeyrac at third place, out of -- well, out of two.

“A triple espresso might,” calls the girl behind the counter, and Courfeyrac doubles over, wheezing. With a last cursory glance at the offending drink, Enjolras pushes the cup across the table to where Courfeyrac’s seat stands empty.

“Well,” he says, crossing his arms and glaring at Courfeyrac in what he  _ hopes  _ is a menacing manner. He’s not very good at the whole purposeful intimidation business, although his friends tell him rather regularly that he’s scariest when he’s trying to be nice to someone, which makes  _ no sense at all _ . “I’m awake now, no thanks to you.”

“ _ All _ thanks to me, Enj, don't you dare discredit me.”

“I’m leaving. I’ll be at home if you need me.”

Courfeyrac’s response is to grab his cappuccino and hold it hostage, and Enjolras shrugs and heads to the counter to order another. The barista -  _ Musichetta,  _ her name tag reads - greets him with an apologetic smile, clearly not in on Courfeyrac's diabolical plan to savagely murder each and every one of Enjolras’ tastebuds. She seems nice. Maybe she can take Courfeyrac’s spot on his friendship list, and bump Courfeyrac down even further. Serves him right, the asshole.

“In your defense,” she says after he orders, “not even my best customers can handle my triple espresso.”

He smiles weakly and hands over his payment. 

“Talk to coffee shop man!” Courfeyrac calls as Enjolras pushes his way out of the cafe, and he doesn’t consider taking the advice for a single second.

  
  


Musichetta isn’t working the next day when Grantaire comes in, but Eponine is behind the counter, brandishing a clicker pen at him when he steps up to order. He waves her off, trying not to meet her eyes, because it isn’t only Musichetta he’s been neglecting.

“You went missing,” she says, punctuating the last word with a stab of her pen into the air in front of Grantaire’s nose. 

“You helped me move in,” he points out helpfully. Not, of course, that it would have done anything to dissuade her. 

“For  _ three weeks _ , you asshole. I’m giving you decaf today.”

Grantaire throws his hand over his chest in a show of mock horror, and in response, Eponine rolls her eyes and turns away from the register. Grantaire slides further down the counter to stay with her as she makes his coffee. She loves him, enough to forego the decaf threat, but not enough to keep from giving him half-caf. It looks like he’ll have to make do with a midday nap, then, because he knows Eponine works full shifts whenever she’s at the Musain and he won’t put it past her to give him half-caf for the rest of the day, no matter how much she loves him. He takes the cup with a kiss blown over the counter and stays put, deciding to keep Eponine busy rather than sit down for his daily dose of figure sketching practice.  _ Got enough of that in last night _ , he thinks, and immediately sees a chance to make Eponine forget about his neglect.

“I met a hot guy in here yesterday,” he says, and knows that he’s made a good choice the second he sees her eyes light up and her head jerk around to face him.

“Tell me  _ everything _ ,” she says.

“Not much to tell, really,” is his reply, and it’s nowhere near a lie. “I ran into him and he didn’t notice me, he said sorry and I balked like a middle-schooler and booked it out.”

“What does he  _ look _ like, though?”

Grantaire’s head immediately flashes up a  _ very helpful _ image of blazing blue eyes and a red coat and golden curls and he  _ really  _ needs to stop thinking about this because if he gets a boner in front of Eponine she’ll  _ never _ let him live it down. “Like a fucking  _ god _ , Eponine, like Apollo, he had this fucking  _ hair _ and it was so  _ soft _ -”

“You touched his hair?”

“I ran into him, Eponine, what do you think?” 

“I run into people every now and then, it’s never ended in me  _ feeling anyone’s hair. _ ”

Really, he’s reconsidering his judgement, because this distraction is proving to be  _ much _ more trouble than it’s worth. The bell on the door jingles, and Grantaire is suddenly very thankful for the appearance of another customer. Eponine finishes wiping down the pickup counter before stepping back to the register, and Grantaire waits for her to take the order, leaning heavily against the laminate countertop and pulling a stir stick out of the mug in the corner. She’s done in minutes, but she’s still waiting for him to explain himself and he’s treated to the insistent silence as she makes the order. The new customer is hovering about three feet away though, well within earshot, and -- well, Grantaire doesn’t exactly want to wax poetic about the golden god from yesterday when someone who  _ isn’t _ Eponine is listening.

“He had a ponytail, my face ended up in it, nothing else to say,” he says tersely, and Eponine  _ blessedly  _ accepts the end of the conversation.

The customer takes his coffee and leaves, and Grantaire clears his throat. He knows Eponine will be working until three, and then she’ll leave to pick Gavroche up from school, and he really  _ does _ feel bad about neglecting his friends for so long. He tells her to bring Gavroche by for a late lunch after school, and heads out with his daily good deed done. Absently, he realizes he hadn’t managed to get his usual morning sketches in, but -- he figures if he spends too much time in the Musain, there’s a decent chance Apollo might show up again and he  _ really can’t let that happen. _

Instead, he heads home and paints blue, blue eyes and golden curls.

 

Enjolras wakes up at two in the afternoon, to the sounds of someone in his kitchen. Logically, it could only be Combeferre or Courfeyrac, seeing as they're the only two people with spare keys to his apartment, and he gets his answer in the form of Courfeyrac backing into his bedroom with a tray in his hands.

“You know,” he says, placing the tray in front of Enjolras with a flourish. The setup is impeccable, Courfeyrac’s even folded a napkin and filled a shallow glass for him - but the only food on the plate is a couple burnt pop tarts. “When I said you needed more sleep, I meant you should go to sleep  _ earlier _ , not wake up  _ later _ .”

“Your point being?” He takes a bite of the pop tart and immediately drops it back to the plate, grabbing for the water to soothe his burnt tongue.

“My point  _ being _ , you met coffee shop man in the morning, and if you want to see him again, you’re not going to do it by sleeping in until the sun goes down.”

Enjolras groans and rubs at his eyes. “Get off the topic, Courf, I already told you that I don’t need to meet anyone.” Courfeyrac had spent the better part of the previous day mooning over what he thought could become of Enjolras’ love life, and frankly, Enjolras would rather drop a brick on his foot than hear anything else about it. “That can’t possibly be why you’re here.”

A sheepish smile meets his words, and Courfeyrac rubs the back of his neck. “No, ah- well see, the coffee shop we went to yesterday hosts book clubs sometimes and I was thinking-”

“You want me to join a book club?” Enjolras is really hoping Courfeyrac gets around to the point soon, because he’s tired and hungry and the pop tarts look much less likely to scald his mouth now.

“What? No, that’s stupid. We already have Combeferre. What I was  _ trying _ to say was that if they host other clubs, why can’t they host us too?”

Enjolras is starting to see the point, but- “We aren’t exactly a book club, Courf. We’re loud and our meetings run late and I don’t want to pressure a shop into hosting us if it’ll end up bad for their other customers.”

“You’ve never cared about being too loud before,” says Courfeyrac. “Is this really about the shop, or is it about the  _ guy?”  _ Courfeyrac gives him a suggestive eyebrow wiggle, and Enjolras fights the  _ very strong _ urge to upend the glass of water on him.

“Get out of my house, Courf,” he threatens, but Courfeyrac knows him well enough by now to not bother with his threats. He does, however, get off of Enjolras’ bed in favor of rooting through his drawers for clothes. Small victories. A couple shirts and a pair of jeans are thrown at him, narrowly missing the glass of water, before Courfeyrac saunters out of the room with a lilting, “We’re going back to the Musain, you should get yourself dressed if you want to make a good impression.”

“I told you,” Enjolras calls through the barely-open door. “I don’t  _ care  _ about the guy from yesterday.”

The door opens again, and Courfeyrac pokes his head in with an angelic expression on his face. “Who said anything about the guy? I was talking about asking the owner for permission to use the cafe, but if you’re  _ really _ still thinking about him-”

“ _Get_ _out_ , Courf,” he says, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated, with a promise of my eternal undying love. catch me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters up in less than 24 hours, im so proud of myself! no beta for this one, sadly, but with luck marco will be back in commission by tomorrow to read through it all so i can make any edits necessary. anyway, i hope you like this chapter! lots of enjoltaire interaction, lots of my favorite boys being dumb and oblivious, lots of enj not knowing what to do when he's attracted to someone. enjoy!

At fifteen minutes past two, Grantaire has the beginnings of a very pathetic painting of Apollo in the works. It's not that he's obsessed or anything,  _ really, _ he just thinks it's a crying shame that someone that beautiful hasn’t been carved in stone or something along those lines yet. Not that he’s doing Apollo’s good looks justice, though, a few smears of red and gold paint don’t amount to art. Still, the damage is done, and he stands in front of the canvas with his hands on his hips and tries to tell himself that painting a stranger he’s said a grand total of twelve words to is  _ not creepy at all.  _ Eponine’s going to have a field day when she finds out.

That thought immediately reminds him that Eponine is supposed to be coming over in an hour, and he is  _ nowhere _ near ready. Hastily shoving the canvas into the corner and trying his best not to smear the still drying paint, he dashes into his bedroom to try and fix his less than impeccable outfit. A glance in the mirror tells him that he  _ really _ needs to shave, and should probably scrub the paint off his skin - he has streaks of red across his forehead and neck, and a splash of gold directly to the left of his nose. He should try to find clothes that  _ aren't  _ covered in paint, too, now that he thinks of it. Gavroche has a bad habit of asking to see his work when he's clearly been painting, and he’s not sure if he wants to bring out his latest piece just yet.

A loud bang startles him out of his thoughts, immediately followed by a colorful expletive from the other side of the wall. At least his neighbor is having a bad day too. Solidarity in numbers, and all that.

A few muffled words drift to his ears, then a much clearer, “Tripped over your  _ fucking breakfast _ , Courf,  _ go away. _ ” Grantaire has to stifle a laugh.

After a moment of deliberation, he leans forward to knock against the wall. “Isn't it technically not breakfast if it's past noon?” he asks, hoping his neighbor isn't so angry that he doesn't take it as the joke he means it to be. Silence greets him, which doesn't bode well, but after a few quiet moments and another thump against the wall, his neighbor answers.

“You of all people know how late I stay up, what kind of question is that?” He doesn't sound in the least bit apologetic for screwing with Grantaire's circadian rhythm on a near-nightly basis, which is - well, a little refreshing, really.

“Fair enough,” Grantaire chuckles back. Taking that as the end of their conversation, he goes back to sifting through his drawers to find a decent outfit. He’s pulling a worn out band tee over his head when there's another knock on the wall.

“Hey, um-” his neighbor starts, then pauses for a moment. “Miley Cyrus guy,” is the lame finish. Grantaire is much less successful about biting back his laugh this time.

“Miley Cyrus guy,” he says. “I like it.”

“It’s the only other thing you've said to me,” is the reply, and Grantaire hadn't thought his neighbor even  _ remembered  _ that. He’s thrilled.

“So, Lester Holt guy,” he shoots back, “what can I do for you?”

“Enjolras.”

“Bless you.”

There’s another thump on the wall, and Grantaire isn't even sure what he did this time, until his neighbor goes, “That's my name. Enjolras.”

“Bless you,” he says again, because he's a little bit of a prick, and Enjolras hits the wall again. “Fine, fine. What can I do for you,  _ Enjolras? _ ”

“What, um-- what kind of outfit would you wear if you want to impress someone but not  _ look _ like you're trying to impress them?” 

Before Grantaire can answer, there’s more muffled words from Enjolras’ apartment, and then a loud, “Shut  _ up _ , Courf, I’m not  _ talking  _ to you!” A pause, then Enjolras continues, “Sorry, not you, a friend is over.”

Grantaire laughs again, and  _ he really does laugh a lot, what if Enjolras thinks it's weird or rude _ , but he still replies, “I don't really think I can help you there, I’m a little bit of a mess myself. I don't think I've  _ ever _ impressed anyone.”

“Ah,” Enjolras says, “Sorry for bothering you, then. Thanks anyway, uh-- Miley Cyrus guy.”

“Grantaire,” he says back, because it's only fair.

“Grantaire, right. Thank you, Grantaire.”

Enjolras is silent after that, and Grantaire is dressed and clean fast enough that he even has enough time to pick up Eponine at the end of her shift. He leaves his apartment, tugging on his shoes as he locks the door behind him, and shoots a glance and a smile at Enjolras’ door before heading to the Musain.

 

Courfeyrac is at his side the second they enter the Musain, shamelessly craning his neck for a glimpse of curly brown hair. Enjolras isn't disappointed that the man from yesterday is nowhere to be seen - he  _ isn't. _ He tugs at the scarf around his neck; his neighbor -  _ Grantaire  _ \- hadn't been much help, but as soon as Courfeyrac had made it back into the room he had assaulted Enjolras with all sorts of ridiculous fashion and relationship tips. He really needs better friends.

There's no getting rid of him at this point, though. He's known Courfeyrac his whole life, Courfeyrac is his best friend, Courfeyrac is -

Courfeyrac is currently making strangled choking sounds and attempting to hide behind Enjolras. He tries to follow his friend’s line of sight to the counter, where a barista that is very clearly  _ not _ Musichetta is taking the order of a boy in a gaudy, overlarge lavender sweater.

“Flowers,” Courfeyrac manages to choke out, then whimpers softly and hides behind Enjolras again. Sure enough, when Enjolras squints he can barely make out the petals of flowers woven into the boy’s braid. 

He’s a wonderful friend, he thinks, and Courfeyrac has given him enough grief in the past twenty-four hours that he feels entirely justified in stepping out from in front of Courfeyrac at the exact moment the boy at the counter finishes his order and turns around.

“ _ Oh my god, _ ” Courfeyrac breathes, and the boy smiles widely at the two of them. Enjolras is suddenly very worried that his best friend might faint in public.

“Be  _ cool,  _ Courf, have I taught you nothing?” he whispers teasingly, and leaves Courfeyrac standing alone in the doorway of the cafe.

The barista is abrasive and a little intimidating when Enjolras approaches her, and she wastes no time in telling him flat-out that her shift is over, and if he wants Musichetta she won't be back until tomorrow. Despite being ever so slightly afraid of her, Enjolras tells the barista that he just wants to speak to the owner, and she simply reiterates her earlier statement about Musichetta, with more emphasis. This new knowledge cements Musichetta’s spot on his friendship list, and Courfeyrac is placed firmly in fourth place. Thanking the new barista, he retreats to a table in the corner and watches as Courfeyrac stumbles his way through a conversation with the boy in the lavender sweater.

This course of action is safe - if rather boring - until ten minutes later, when the bell on the door chimes and Enjolras looks up -- and his heart stops. _ Damn  _ Courfeyrac and his nonstop rambling about the man from yesterday, he was  _ not  _ prepared for this  _ at all _ \- one look at dark curls and the shadow of dark stubble along a strong jawline and his heart is hammering in his chest like he’s a high schooler and not a graduate law student. He makes a split-second decision. Before the man can look around and notice him, he scrabbles for a newspaper in the display to his right and opens it fully in front of his face.

He feels like Courfeyrac, and wants to grab his friend by the shoulders and shake him at the same time. This is all Courfeyrac’s fault - if he hadn't gone on for hours about how  _ strong _ the man looked and how  _ ruggedly handsome _ he was -

_ “He’s like your perfect opposite, Enj,” he had said. “He's almost as tall as you are, he could probably pick you up, maybe pin you against a wall - ooh, if you don't go for him, I might just -” _

Enjolras shifts in his seat and forcefully shuts down that train of thought before it can get any further. He's going to  _ strangle _ Courfeyrac for making him so-- so  _ aware _ of this.

The newspaper is blocking his view, and he lowers it just enough to be able to see the man again. He's past Courfeyrac by now, and Enjolras sends out a silent thanks to the boy in the lavender sweater for keeping his friend too distracted to notice the sudden appearance of the very person he’d been waxing poetic about all day. The barista comes out from behind the counter, then, and Enjolras wouldn't have noticed her if not for the fact that she makes a beeline for Mr. Ruggedly Handsome, greeting him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Enjolras is decidedly  _ not  _ disappointed, he is a  _ much _ better man than that.

While the man is distracted by his conversation with the barista - and he  _ really  _ wishes now that he had cared enough to catch her name - Enjolras drops the newspaper to the table and all but flees to Courfeyrac. “We need to leave  _ now, _ ” he hisses, with an apologetic look in the direction of Courfeyrac's flowery new friend.

“But-”

“He's  _ here,  _ Courf, we have to  _ go. _ ” 

That seems to snap Courfeyrac out of his reverie, and he darts his gaze around to look for the man. His eyes go wide, and Enjolras knows he’s spotted him. This is all Courfeyrac's fault anyway, so really, his friend only has himself to blame for the way Enjolras follows his gaze - and immediately freezes. 

The man is walking towards him with the barista at his side, deep in conversation. Enjolras can't feel his hands. Next to him, Courfeyrac draws in a sharp breath, and Enjolras really can't blame him. They're feet away, now, and the man still hasn't noticed him but he lifts his gaze to navigate his way to the door and -

They lock eyes, and Enjolras feels his stomach drop through the wooden floor of the Musain. The man stops short and then they're both frozen, staring at each other, and Enjolras can hear the barista’s voice as if he's underwater; everything outside of blue eyes and dark curls and rough stubble seems so inconsequential.

“R.  _ R. _ We have to  _ go. _ ”

The barista’s voice cuts through the bubble surrounding the two of them, and suddenly the world washes over Enjolras again. Courfeyrac is saying something to his new friend, who’s nodding sagely, and the man is walking again - right past Enjolras, without looking back. The bell on the door chimes, and he is gone, but Enjolras feels like he’s walking on air.

It's not a name, just a letter, but it's more than he had before.

_ R _ , he thinks, as he and Courfeyrac leave the cafe.

 

As soon as they’re out of sight of the Musain, Eponine whirls on him. “That was  _ him, _ wasn’t it? I’m right, aren’t I?” She looks like a little girl who just got a puppy, her eyes are bright and she’s grinning from ear to ear. “You should have seen the  _ look _ on your  _ face,  _ R, you’re so fucking  _ smitten. _ ”

Grantaire wants to curl up into a ball. He’s still reeling from seeing Apollo again, looking even better than he had the day before, with his hair tied up and his jeans so tight Grantaire was afraid to look below waist level - not that he could, when Apollo was looking right back at him with those  _ eyes. _ He didn’t recognize the short man with him, but he knew Jehan, a friend of a friend of a friend, and hell if he isn’t going to give Jehan the third degree for details next time he and Eponine run into him. He keeps walking, hoping Eponine will take the hint - but he’s sure she knows he’s faking his indifference; he realizes after another couple minutes that he’s twisting the fabric lining his pockets so much it’s visible on the outside of his jacket.

“He looked like he remembered you,” she says nonchalantly, after a few more moments of silence, and Grantaire chokes.

“God, I  _ hope _ not. I made such an idiot of myself yesterday, Ep, you should have seen it. I’ll  _ never _ live it down.”

“Yes you will,” she says, taking his hand and tugging him down the street towards Gavroche’s school. “And you can tell me all about it over food and bad TV. Now come on, no more moping or I’ll have Gav put fake spiders in your bed again.”

“You  _ wouldn’t. _ ” With a smile and a slightly better mood, Grantaire follows Eponine the rest of the way to the school.

 

There are voices coming from Grantaire’s apartment when Enjolras gets home, well into the evening, and he vaguely registers that this is the first time in weeks he’s heard anything through the wall that isn’t directed at him. There’s a girl’s voice, high and muffled, and what sounds like a kid playing video games. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips - not that he had been worried about his neighbor, but after the conversation earlier in the day he’s glad the man has some company despite claiming to be “a mess.”

He doesn’t focus much on Grantaire, though, his head is still reeling with the aftershock of seeing R in the Musain. He still isn’t sure how he managed to make it out on his own after the fact, he was certain it involved quite a bit of Courfeyrac pushing him in the right direction.  _ Little Enj has his first crush,  _ he had teased,  _ isn’t it cute? _ Thanks to that, Courfeyrac is now sitting at fifth on his friendship list, with Combeferre in first, Musichetta in second, and - _ hopefully _ \- a place for R if they ever get to know each other.

With that thought, he’s reminded of Combeferre, and remembers that while Courfeyrac might be absolutely no help in figuring this  _ crush _ thing out, Combeferre is much more logical and rational. And besides, he tells himself, it isn’t a crush thing. Not in the slightest. This is just an unfortunate side effect of Courfeyrac making up detailed sexual scenarios about someone, and then Enjolras remembering them in public.

Fumbling for his phone, he types out a text -  _ Come over? Want to talk about a thing _ \- and sends it, hoping that Courfeyrac doesn’t hear about it somehow. He’s had enough of that particular brand of humiliation for one day, thank you very much. On the list of things Enjolras is certain of, a definite place is carved out for the fact that he's never going to live down the vivid reenactments of his little shutdown in the cafe,  _ or _ Courfeyrac's terrible, off-key rendition of  _ Kiss the Girl _ as they walked out of the Musain. He shudders just thinking about it, thankful that R had been out of sight - and hopefully earshot - by the time he regained enough use of his legs to leave the Musain himself.

His phone chirps, and he pulls it out of his pocket to read Combeferre’s  _ late shift at the hospital, sorry. need me to call? _ With a sigh, he sits down heavily on his bed.

_ It's fine, _ he sends back, then after another moment of consideration, follows it with a cryptic  _ Tell Courf I’m never going out in public with him again. _

_ that bad?  _ is the reply he gets. He loves Combeferre.

_ Like you wouldn't believe. Stop using your phone at work. _

True to his nature, Combeferre listens to his command, and Enjolras’ phone is silent again.

He isn't particularly upset with how the day went, at the end of it all. Sure, Courfeyrac had been singularly annoying, and he  _ really _ could have handled the situation at the Musain better, but good things had happened. Good things, like having something to call R other than  _ coffee shop guy,  _ and like Courfeyrac being rendered speechless by flowers and an offensively purple sweater. Good things like meeting his neighbor, however briefly and impersonally. He didn't even feel much of a need to watch the news tonight, which was a rare occasion.

Despite his good mood, his apartment feels a little stifling and empty without Courfeyrac or Combeferre there to fill the silences. Through the wall, he can barely hear the sounds of Grantaire and his houseguests making pleasant conversation, a low hum at the edges of his consciousness. Lying back on his bed, he closes his eyes and lets his thoughts wander to dark, messy hair and rough stubble, the mental images punctuated with the sound of Grantaire's voice filtering in from the next apartment. It makes for an oddly nice combination, and Enjolras is so exhausted after the events of the day that he’s only a little embarrassed for falling asleep to thoughts of R with his neighbor’s low, full laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> insert generic note about kudos and comments here. for everyone actually keeping up with this fic: i love you more than anything in the world. send me all your enjoltaire headcanons on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact! the bit about courfeyrac waking up enjolras and grantaire by singing showtunes is an entirely true story borrowed from a sixth grade weekend field trip to catalina island, where the chaperone in charge of my cabin would wake us all up every morning by kicking open the door and belting oklahoma at the top of her lungs.
> 
> needless to say, i've never forgotten oklahoma since.
> 
> short-ish chapter this time, sorry! ive been in a bit of a writing slump today, but sitting down and forcing myself to write this out certainly helped - i hope it doesn't show too much. enjoy!

It’s past midnight when Eponine leaves, supporting a yawning Gavroche. He had offered to let them stay the night, but Eponine had declined, on the basis that Gavroche had school the next day and no change of clothes at Grantaire’s. He's a little disappointed when the door swings shut and he's left alone again; after the first company he's had in weeks the silence is a little overwhelming. Still, he can't complain, even with all the things that had gone wrong - the most notable of which being him seeing Apollo,  _ again,  _ and not being able to do anything but gape at him pathetically.

The mental reminder leads him to sink down to sit on the couch, dropping his head in his hands and letting out a soft, agonized scream into his palms.

God, it was no wonder Eponine makes fun of him for never successfully hitting on anyone. The second he sets eyes on someone that beautiful, all his mental capacities fly out the window. Or the door of the Musain, in this case.

Apollo had been so  _ pretty _ , though. Tall and severe, with jeans even tighter than the first day Grantaire had met him. It had taken everything in him to walk out of the Musain without giving into the urge to glance back at Apollo’s ass in those pants. He really hopes the guy talking to Jehan wasn't his boyfriend, but that train of thought is immediately shut down. It doesn't matter whether or not Apollo has a boyfriend -  _ or a girlfriend,  _ his awful brain reminds him, because he has nothing to suggest that Apollo even likes guys in the first place, much less guys that also happen to be destitute art majors who drink too much and eat too little and don't shave enough. No, Apollo deserves  _ perfection,  _ and Grantaire is the furthest thing from that. Besides, it's not as if he’ll ever get the chance, what with the unfortunate side effect of turning into a blithering idiot the second Apollo so much as looks at him. Grantaire would be lucky if he ever managed to get a single word out around him, between gaping like a fish and going so red Joly would have an aneurysm trying to diagnose him. If he ever  _ sees _ Apollo again, that is. At this point, Grantaire’s torn between renouncing all his friendships and never setting foot in the Musain again, or taking out emergency travel funds in the event he runs into Apollo again and needs to flee the country. Grantaire’s a little dramatic, sure, but he thinks it’s more than warranted given the heart-stopping circumstances he’s been put through.

He screams again, quietly, because it's still past midnight and Enjolras isn't yelling, which means he's either not home or fast asleep.

Grantaire's nowhere near sleep, though. He's wired, both from the night with Eponine and Gavroche and from thinking about Apollo again. His jeans are uncomfortably tight in the crotch area, too, but he firmly ignores that. He's pathetic, sure, but not so pathetic that he'll wring one out over a guy he's seen twice and never talked to. He has standards, thank you very much.

Low standards, sure, but standards all the same.

Still, though, he can't shake the thoughts of Apollo, and so he decides to put his unfortunate obsession to better use. His paints are still lying by the window, untouched since earlier that afternoon, and he painstakingly puts aside all thoughts of jacking off in favor of a much more productive outlet for his frustration. Dragging the canvas out of the corner - where it had remained blessedly ignored by Eponine and Gavroche - he sets to work painting his golden god.

His earlier work isn’t smudged, thank god, but now that he looks at it he realizes the glaringly obvious fact that it doesn’t quite do justice to Apollo - he had started with a simple pose, Apollo’s figure turned to look at him, with a halo of sun filtering through the open doorway of the Musain and painting his curls brilliantly gold. It wouldn’t do, now that he had seen for himself the soft curve of his neck, his lips parted in surprise, his brow furrowed. No, Apollo should be  _ immortalized in marble, _ not painted on an old, cheap piece of canvas, but it’s the best Grantaire can do.

Shaking off his lingering doubt, he sets to work fixing the painting.

 

Enjolras blinks his eyes open slowly, awakening to a dark room and a muffled noise filtering through his apartment. He shakes his head and tries to wave off the disorientation clouding his mind - half his thoughts are still thick with sleep, stuck in a vision of thin fingers twisted in soft, dark curls. The soft noise fills his apartment again, and he recognizes it this time - a whine, muffled by the walls between him and Grantaire.

The clock on his bedside table blinks a soft  _ 2:34,  _ and Enjolras’ first thought is  _ why is he still awake?  _ followed by  _ is he okay? _ He doesn't get his answer though - nothing but silence greets him from Grantaire's apartment.

Exhaustion flickers at the edges of his sleep-addled consciousness, but Enjolras is in no mood to sleep. Now free from his groggy disorientation, he finds himself somewhat ashamed of himself for so blatantly objectifying both R - a man he had never spoken to - and Grantaire - a man he had never seen in person - in the haze of sleep; never mind the fact that he himself was the only witness. Despite his desperate want to see R again, outside of his own dreams, he isn't sure if he'd be able to keep his imagination at bay - and he’s probably caused enough trouble for himself already without giving himself more personal fantasy fodder.

In an attempt to distract himself, Enjolras tumbles out of his bed and staggers tiredly to his bathroom to shower. His clothes are dropped haphazardly along the length of the hallway; he braces himself with one hand against the wall to keep from collapsing into sleep again. He leaves the bathroom light off and pulls himself up into the tub, feeling along the tile for the faucet and spraying ice cold water over his head and back. Swearing harshly, he pulls the faucet up until the water cascading down his skin is scalding, then down again so the shower spray is at a comfortable lukewarm. Enjolras sits there in the tub for what seems like hours, failing miserably at keeping thoughts of R at bay but steadfastly refusing to give in and actively acknowledge his inner monologue.

 

It’s nearing three in the morning when, on opposite sides of the same wall, two tired young men drag themselves into bed, a head of inky black curls unknowingly turned to face a head of soft golden curls that - just as unknowingly - faces back.

 

Grantaire is going to  _ strangle  _ his neighbor. Or rather, whoever is in his neighbor’s apartment at ass-o’clock in the morning, singing what sounds like off-key showtunes loud enough to carry into his bedroom from Enjolras’ living room. He endures about twenty seconds of Broadway’s finest before he snaps and slaps a hand against his bedroom wall. 

“Make him  _ shut up,  _ Enjolras, or so help me-”

He's met with a pained groan, which only makes him feel a little better. At least he isn't alone in this hell. Enjolras knocks against the wall, either an agreement or a  _ shut up and leave me alone,  _ and Grantaire sincerely hopes it's the former.

“ _ Shut up,  _ Courf,” Enjolras shouts, and suddenly things make a lot more sense. 

“Is that the same guy who was here yesterday?” he asks, vaguely remembering the brief conversation he'd had with Enjolras before his entire world had gone to hell,  _ again,  _ in the Musain.

“I wish it wasn't,” is Enjolras’ answer, and there's a soft bang and a shuffling sound on Enjolras’ side of the wall before another voice joins the conversation.

“Who's got you up so early?” says someone Grantaire can only assume is  _ Courf,  _ and he resists the urge to snap at him about showtunes and apartment etiquette and decent waking times for human beings. He’s fairly sure the sun hasn't been up for more than an hour.

“Get out of my apartment,” Enjolras bites out, “or I’m revoking your spare key privileges.” 

There's a dramatic gasp, then Courf says - in a rather over exaggerated voice - “Enj, you  _ wouldn't. _ ”

“Try me.”

Enjolras is a man after Grantaire's own heart. He could  _ kiss _ his neighbor.  _ Or, _ he revises after a moment of deliberation,  _ he could just not be a creep. _

He's growing increasingly worried with every time that thought pops up in his head.

Thankfully, Courf cuts off that particular train of thought with a heartbroken, “But I made you  _ pancakes, _ Enj!”

Grantaire sighs, a small exhale of laughter escaping his lips completely unbidden. “Pancakes are hardly a decent apology for waking someone up with  _ Oklahoma, _ ” he calls through the wall. “And besides, I didn't even get any.”

There's strained silence for a moment, and then Enjolras replies, “Don’t encourage him, Grantaire, he might start singing again.” His voice is tense and nervous, like he’s genuinely afraid his friend might spontaneously break into song again - and really, Grantaire doesn’t blame him.

“Oh  _ god _ -” is all he manages to get out before someone in the next apartment lets out a high-pitched squeal, and he  _ really hopes that wasn't Enjolras. _ He’ll never let his neighbor live it down, nightly news-anchor anger be damned. He’ll welcome that fury turned on himself if he can hold a  _ squeal  _ over his self-righteous neighbor’s head. 

Although, he thinks, it might not be completely accurate to call him self-righteous. Sure, Enjolras had plagued Grantaire with more than his fair share of late-night rants on taxation or the wage gap or the dwindling middle class, but he's been slowly proving himself human - even if that proof had only come in the form of a shitty nickname and a plea for fashion advice. Small wonders. Musichetta would cry with motherly pride if she could see him now; living on his own and making friends with his next door neighbor like a proper adult.

“I can bring  _ you _ pancakes!”

That is definitely  _ not _ Enjolras, and Grantaire fights off equally strong waves of disappointment and  _ free pancakes. _

He tries to remind himself that ‘free pancakes’ is not a valid emotion, and fails miserably.

The sound of a small scuffle filters through the thin wall, and Grantaire hears Enjolras call a choked off, “Courf,  _ wait,” _ before there's another bang - Courf must love his dramatic entrances and exits. “I’m sorry,” Enjolras sighs, in the silence that follows. He sounds exhausted, as tired as Grantaire feels, and he’s struck with a sudden pity for the guy. Being so gung-ho about political change and improving the state of the world must be a tiring way to live - Grantaire picked the easy life for a reason, and it’s only partially because he likes art.

“Hey, don't be like that,” he replies, only slightly joking. “Free pancakes, right?”

He’s half-expecting Enjolras to respond, but there's no chance for words when Courf is suddenly pounding at his front door. He shoots a half-hearted  _ wish me luck _ in the direction of Enjolras’ apartment before falling out of his bed and rooting around on his bedroom floor for a non-paint-stained pair of pants. No dice. The closest he gets is the jeans he had worn the night before, which are now covered in gaudy smears of gold and red and the occasional black streak. He tugs them on and rubs a hand over his unshaven face, hoping absently that this Courf fellow doesn't mind him looking a little bit like hell froze over.

He staggers to the door with the air of someone who has either just run a marathon or come out of a coma, barely taking in the shitshow that is his living room. His unfinished painting of Apollo stands in full view of the doorway. Along the floor, table, and various counter surfaces are the remnants of last night's guests - beer cans left by him and Eponine, soda cans by Gavroche, and two empty pizza boxes - and the whole place smells faintly of cigarettes and stale air.

He’s too tired to care about that, though, because from what he can see of his kitchen, the stove clock reads 6:52, and Courf is still beating against his front door.  _ Right,  _ he reminds himself.  _ Free pancakes. _ As he turns the lock, Courf calls out a cheery, “Courfeyrac at your service, express pancake delivery for all your-”

He swings open the door, and his world goes to shit.

 

  
“Oh my  _ god, _ ” Courfeyrac breathes. “It's  _ you. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how do cliffhangers work? don't ask me, i certainly have no idea.
> 
> the way to a writer's heart is through the "comment" button. i love you all for sticking with me through this ridiculous story. come find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter this time, sorry!! next one should be up by sunday, though, the plot's really starting to kick off now!
> 
> again, my undying love to everyone actively keeping up with this story, and especially to those of you that comment on every chapter - you know who you are. i love you. i would die for you.
> 
> enjoy!

Grantaire allows himself exactly seven seconds of silent internal meltdown, before bodily grabbing Courfeyrac and dragging him inside the apartment. He swings the two of them around, pushing Courfeyrac further inside and physically barring the door, a wild tango that comes very close to sending his (free) pancakes flying. Courfeyrac is still staring at him, open-mouthed, and Grantaire realizes with a sickening jolt that  _ the painting of Apollo is sitting in plain view in his living room. _ This is quite possibly the worst situation he’s ever gotten himself into, and that's including the first day he met Eponine, back in high school, where he had tripped in front of her lunch table and landed with his head up her skirt, and she had punched him so hard he had needed three stitches in his lip.

“Don't you  _ dare _ tell him,” he hisses, thankful Courfeyrac is still facing him and not looking around his living room.

“Who,  _ Enjolras _ ?” Courfeyrac scoffs. “Why  _ wouldn't  _ I tell Enj, this is  _ amazing _ -”

_ Enjolras?  _ Grantaire shakes his head frantically. “Not Enjolras, that- the  _ guy _ you were with yesterday, in the Musain.” In an attempt to hold Courfeyrac's attention, he lifts his hands and gesticulates wildly in the air between the two of them. “You know, blonde, tall, kind of looks like a Greek god fallen to Earth?”

He's met with silence, and Courfeyrac's wide, disbelieving stare.

“Grantaire,” he says slowly, pulling the plate of syrup-drenched pancakes protectively against his chest. “Have you ever actually  _ met _ Enjolras?”

He really wishes Courfeyrac would stop with the questions, he’s only just met the guy but he’s really starting to - 

Oh.  _ Oh. _

_ Holy shit. _

Grantaire realizes very quickly that this is  _ not  _ the place for this conversation, because Enjolras -  _ Apollo, _ his traitorous brain reminds him - could be just on the other side of the wall, and  _ god _ if that isn't a thought that's going to haunt him every single night from here on out. He has another two-second meltdown, then pulls Courfeyrac by the arms - careful to keep the painting of Enjolras out of his line of sight - across the apartment and into his bathroom. He shuts the door behind them, and tears down a towel to stuff the crack under the door with, for good measure. Really, he’s proud of himself for being so calm and clear-headed about all of this - although that might just be the fact that he's very mildly hungover and still too tired to fully grasp the severity of the situation. In front of him, Courfeyrac is still gaping and trying very hard to form words. The pancakes look in danger of slipping off the plate and falling to the floor, with the way Courfeyrac seems to have forgotten all about them, and so Grantaire gently takes the plate and sets it down on the counter. 

“Why am I in here?” Courfeyrac asks feebly, upon regaining control of his voice.

“Because Enjolras can  _ hear _ me from out there,” he hisses, jabbing a finger in the general area of his living room, “and you are  _ not _ allowed to tell him who I am.”

“What? Why not?”

Grantaire sighs heavily, not quite sure he wants to explain to Courfeyrac just how  _ terrible  _ it would be if Enjolras found out he was living next door to a man who ran into him, felt his hair, and then booked it home to paint an homage to him, Pre-Raphaelite style.

Of course, Courfeyrac doesn't need to know that last part.

“Because,” he replies slowly, after a burst of inspiration, “if you cross me I’ll tell Jehan all about your terrible,  _ terrible,  _ singing, and Jehan  _ really  _ values a man who can sing.” He’s aware that he's being more than a little bit of a dick right now, and Jehan probably couldn't care less whether or not Courfeyrac could sing because from what Grantaire saw yesterday (as little as he noticed, being too busy staring at Enjolras like a smitten idiot), Jehan had been closer to starry-eyed than even Keats and Byron could make him. Still, it's a last-ditch attempt to get Courfeyrac on his side, and somehow, it works. Courfeyrac's eyes go wide with horror, and he takes an almost imperceptible step back.

“You  _ wouldn't. _ ”

“Do you really want to find out?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, looking just as panicked as Grantaire feels. Poor kid. Courfeyrac is nice, Grantaire decides then, barring the terrible singing and far-too-early wake up call. They're in this together, for better or worse, although Grantaire  _ really _ hopes it turns out to be the former.

“I won't tell him,” Courfeyrac croaks, “as long as you don't tell Jehan.”

Grantaire feels himself visibly relax, his shoulders slumping and his pent-up breath whooshing out of his lungs in a long exhale. “Courf,” he says, grasping the shorter man’s shoulders and looking him in the eyes. “If you stay on my side in this, I swear I’ll get you a date with him before the month is over.”

Courfeyrac looks like he could kiss Grantaire, but that's something that  _ definitely  _ shouldn't happen, so instead Grantaire pulls open the bathroom door and Courfeyrac stumbles backwards into the open living room. He follows, taking the plate of pancakes - which are now soggy with syrup but still look decently appetizing - and bringing them into the kitchen. He feels much more at ease now, enough that he thinks he might even be able to handle living next to Enjolras now, as long as he doesn't run into him while getting mail or leaving his apartment. He can do that, right? Of course he can.

Maybe he’ll stay with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta again for the night, or crash on Eponine's couch until this whole Enjolras thing blows over and he can sleep in his own bed again without constantly thinking about the fact that there's nothing but a too-thin wall and a couple feet of space between him and the object of his almost-obsession. He can do this, he’ll be okay. He’s relaxed. He’s not anxious. He’s cool.

Which is why he promptly drops the pancakes when Courfeyrac screeches, “you  _ painted  _ him?!”

 

Enjolras, for what it's worth, hears absolutely nothing from the next apartment over -- he falls back asleep less than two minutes after Courfeyrac leaves his apartment.

 

Twenty-seven minutes later, Grantaire opens his apartment door to the second stranger in less than an hour. Combeferre is Courfeyrac's universal opposite, tall and quiet and sensible where Courfeyrac is short and loud and far more trouble than he’s worth.

“I’m calling Combeferre,” he had said, after Grantaire had all but tackled the painting in an attempt to hide it out of sight. “This is hopeless, I can't do this alone.”

Combeferre seems like a decent guy, and Grantaire breathes a sigh of relief when he isn't immediately assaulted by yet another Courfeyrac-like figure. One is enough, thank you very much, he’d rather not have that much pure unbridled energy in his apartment. Thankfully, Combeferre doesn't burst out into song, or offer him pancakes, or comment on the incriminating painting lying face-up on his living room floor. Instead, Grantaire is treated to a single disapprovingly raised eyebrow. He isn't sure which man he's more afraid of - Courfeyrac who’s witnessed his horrifically embarrassing actions at the Musain, or Combeferre, who has never seen him before but somehow still seems like he knows everything that's happened in the past 72 hours. If these are Enjolras’ two best friends, Grantaire doesn't even want to  _ think _ about the obligatory best friend ‘hurt him and and I hurt you’ conversations.

As if he’ll ever date Enjolras.

He lets Combeferre in, somewhat hesitantly, and promises to never,  _ ever _ get himself into this situation again. This is  _ mortifying. _

“So,” Combeferre says, once the three of them are situated around Grantaire’s hastily cleaned coffee table. “Does anyone care to explain why I’m in a stranger’s apartment, and not asleep in my own bed?” 

“Quietly this time, maybe?” Grantaire asks, fixing a meaningful look on Courfeyrac, who at least had the presence of mind to look sheepish. Grantaire's just thankful that his veritable  _scream_ earlier hadn't caught Enjolras' attention; he's fairly sure he'll combust on the spot if he's forced to endure any more humiliation.

Courfeyrac opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get out a single incriminating word, the sound of heavy footsteps on the staircase fills the apartment, followed by the infiltration of Grantaire’s apartment  _ yet again.  _ Fucking Murphy’s law. For a blissful moment, Grantaire truly considers packing his bags and buying a ticket on the next plane out of the country.

“I hope you’re dressed R, I left my jacket here last night and - you aren’t R.” Eponine surveys the scene of Grantaire’s apartment from the relatively safe haven of the doorway for a tense moment, before nodding sharply. “Right. You, with me. Now.” She points at Grantaire, crooking her finger with the same expression she had worn just before nearly knocking Grantaire’s front teeth out of his mouth.

He looks between her, the painting, and Enjolras’ two best friends. 

“Actually, Eponine,” he starts, and loses about seven years off his life when her eyes narrow even further, “it might be better if you sit down for this.”

She looks wary, like she isn't sure whether Grantaire is being sincere or forced to say those words at metaphorical gunpoint. Her gaze flickers over the mess of his living room, then back up to Grantaire.

“They were just about to explain,” Combeferre adds on, patting the couch cushion next to him. Eponine steadfastly ignores him, dropping down to the floor instead. Combeferre doesn’t even look put out by this, and Grantaire’s respect for the guy increases just a bit. Not many men take Eponine’s scorn that well.

Eponine looks expectantly at Grantaire, then at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, clearing her throat pointedly.

“Right,” says Courfeyrac, and launches into his rendition of the day’s events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a comment a day keeps the writer's block at bay. find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i may have suffered through a splitting headache while writing this, but i promised an update by sunday so an update by sunday you shall have. the plot is really starting to kick into gear, im getting excited! i'm having a lot of fun writing this fic, and i'm really glad you all like it too. enjoy!

“You,” Eponine says after she closes the door behind Courfeyrac and Combeferre, “are absolutely  _ fucking hopeless.” _ Her tone is tense and weary, like he's Gavroche coming home with a bad grade instead of her best friend sticking his foot so far in his mouth he can feel it in his stomach. He wonders briefly if he can chalk his mistakes up to exhaustion. It’s still too early for normal, non-Courfeyrac people to function, although his impromptu crisis meeting had run long and lost them all over an hour, and his stovetop clock now proclaims a cheery  _ 8:21.  _ “You  _ live next door to him _ -” Grantaire casts a quick glance at the wall, as if Enjolras will suddenly manifest on his side of it after being silent the entire morning “- and when you realize this, your first response is to  _ blackmail his best friend into keeping you a secret? _

“I didn't blackmail Combeferre,” he says, although a small part of his brain reminds him guiltily that the only likely reason Combeferre agreed to all this was because of Eponine - she may not have noticed, but Grantaire and Combeferre had had a perfect sight line down her cleavage; and while Grantaire was more or less immune to her feminine wiles, Combeferre had spent the entire hour staring directly at the wall ahead and turning slowly redder every time Eponine so much as shifted. Grantaire found this highly amusing, even more so because it offered a way to get Combeferre on his side.

Eponine gives him a flat stare. “Why are you so hung up on this guy, anyway? Sure, he’s pretty, but you  _ also  _ told me that he's been keeping you up at night with his awful political rants-”

“I didn't say they were  _ awful, _ I said they were  _ unnecessary _ -”

“-and  _ besides,  _ you've dug yourself into a big fucking hole by getting his best friends to lie to him, and - _ oh right, painting him in clear and excessive detail, you fucking creep. _ ”

Grantaire groans and sinks to the floor, tucking his head between his legs and trying very hard to look less miserable than he feels.

“It's not like I  _ asked _ for him to be so pretty, he just  _ was, _ ” he whines, his voice somewhat muffled by the fact that he’s directing his words in the general vicinity of a dubious carpet stain between his thighs rather than at Eponine herself. “And it would be understandable if he was that pretty but also like, a child murderer or a racist or something because hey, no one can be perfect, right? But no, he has to be beautiful  _ and  _ soft  _ and  _ ridiculously liberal and outspoken.” 

“Stop calling him soft, that’s just proving my point about you being creepy.”

“Thanks Ep, love you too.”

She steps away from him then, backing into the kitchen to draw a glass of water from his tap, before returning to the living room and setting it heavily on the coffee table. “I’ve gotta hand it to you, R,” she says. “I didn't think anyone could get more pathetic than Marius-era me, but you went and turned your apartment into a war council room for your pretty boy crush’s pretty boy best friends. You've given me prime blackmail material in  _ spades,  _ my hopeless drunkard.”

He flips her off weakly.

“Thankfully,” Eponine goes on, “you have me here to clean up your shit for you. Put your clothes on, R, I’m taking you to Musichetta’s.”

 

Enjolras wakes up at the very respectable time of half past eleven, to a silent, empty bedroom and the sounds of quiet city life outside his apartment windows. Courfeyrac is nowhere to be seen, and he would have passed off the entire morning as a particularly vicious dream had it not been for the plate of cold, drenched, unappetizing pancakes on his bedside table. He makes a somewhat disgusted face at it, then remembers that Courfeyrac had apparently gone off to bother Grantaire, and his disgust turns into a downright scowl. He knocks hesitantly against the wall.

“Grantaire?”

No answer. It's too quiet for Grantaire to be awake and busy in some other part of his apartment, and Enjolras realizes his neighbor must not be home any longer. He can only hope Courfeyrac didn't take a liking to him and immediately abduct him to do all sorts of ridiculous unnecessary new friend things, like going out for breakfast and seeing a movie and singing showtunes at a respectable volume well away from Enjolras’ apartment. Considering Grantaire's reaction to Courfeyrac’s wake-up call, though, he doubts the latter is very likely.

He feels around for his phone and texts Courfeyrac.  _ Did you abduct Grantaire? _

The reply is nearly instantaneous.  _ why would i abduct grantaire? _ Then, after a few more seconds;  _ why are you asking? what do you know? what have you heard? _

Enjolras sighs, before realizing Courfeyrac can't actually hear him.  _ Stop talking, you aren't making any sense. I’ll take that as a no.  _ So, Grantaire is safe, then. Or rather, safe from Courfeyrac, at the very least. Now that he's cleared up that pressing matter, his head is finally clear enough to focus on more important things. 

Unfortunately, those important things turn out to be an increasingly panicked recollection of last night’s impromptu shower thoughts, coupled with a loud and incessant stream of  _ how do I see him again? _ Enjolras is mortified; he’s never been this hung up over  _ anyone,  _ not counting his speech and debate opponents in high school - but that had been more an  _ I need to beat him at all costs _ sort of obsession, not an  _ I need to see him without a shirt on at all costs  _ one. That realization alone is enough to make him flip over onto his stomach and whine into his pillow for a solid five seconds. He feels pathetic, he sounds pathetic, he's sure he  _ looks _ pathetic. He’s never going to get  _ anything  _ done like this, much less find a way to find R and seduce him into kissing Enjolras and  _ maybe  _ allowing a little lap-sitting. He isn’t asking for a lot here, really, he's just not sure how to ask for it in the first place. His personal strength is in talking to crowds, in analyzing the body language and unspoken words of sleazy politicians, in staying up for three nights in a row to gather notes before debates and still demolishing the opposition at the stand. Talking to hot men is  _ not _ his strong suit.

A burst of inspiration hits; he calls Combeferre.

“I need help,” he says as soon as Combeferre picks up.

_ “Hello Combeferre, how was your morning?”  _ Combeferre says dryly.  _ “Fine, thanks Enjolras, I do love how attentive you are as a friend.” _ Combeferre pauses for a moment, letting the static crackle between lines, then goes on.  _ “Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, why are you calling this early?” _

“I met a guy,” he says, rushing the words out of his mouth like he's in a timed speech. “At the Musain, the other day, and I don't know how to find him.”

Combeferre is silent for a worryingly long amount of time. Enjolras counts the seconds ticking by, curling and uncurling his toes underneath his bedcovers. Finally, he says,  _ “have you tried going back to the Musain?” _ and Enjolras chokes.

“ _ God _ no, I could hardly  _ look  _ at him last time I was there, I didn't even get his name.” Combeferre lets out a startled laugh, and Enjolras feels slightly offended. Combeferre  _ knows  _ how uncomfortable he is socially, this turn of events shouldn't surprise him. “What do you think I should do?”

_ “First of all, go back to the Musain.” _ Enjolras groans loudly, and Combeferre shushes him.  _ “Preferably alone, maybe with an excuse to talk to him.” _

“Right. What kind of excuse?”

_ “You're smart,” _ Combeferre drawls.  _ “Think of one.” _

And then the line clicks dead, and Enjolras is left holding a silent phone and staring into empty air.

“Thanks, Combeferre,” he says, for the hell of it. “‘No worries, Enjolras, I love helping you with your problems.’”

_ Christ, he’s pathetic. _

 

Grantaire grins when Joly opens the door, staring down at Eponine holding his shirt collar like he’s a petulant kid that was caught stealing a candy bar and dragged home by the police. Joly responds by letting out a very unmanly shriek and tackling him to the floor with a vicious hug. “You  _ fucking asshole, _ ” Joly shouts into his ear, far too loudly. “You’ve been gone for  _ so fucking long. _ ”

“Is that Grantaire?” a voice calls from further inside the apartment, and Grantaire gives a weak thumbs-up to Bossuet. Joly immediately jumps up and pulls Grantaire to his feet. 

“ _ Shit,  _ I left him in the kitchen,” he hisses, and scampers back inside before Bossuet can do any significant damage. Grantaire follows him, a little hesitantly - although he isn’t sure why, this was his home for  _ years _ before he moved in with Enjolras.

_ Next door to Enjolras. _ Fucking traitorous brain.

The trio’s apartment is the same as he remembers, down to the couch that’s placed ever so slightly in the walkway between the front door and the kitchen. Grantaire stubs his toe on it as he’s walking, for old times’ sake. Eponine follows behind him, seeming more comfortable in the apartment than he is. Once again, he’s hit with the realization of just how  _ long _ it’s been since he’s seen Joly and Bossuet - he used to live with them, used to wake up with them every day, and it took a personal crisis over a hot boy to get him to come back this soon. A wave of shame washes over him, and he suddenly feels quite a bit like a runaway who left to scorn his parents, only to come back and realize he missed them more than ever. That image certainly goes well with his earlier Musichetta-mom-friend thoughts.

Bossuet wraps him up in a hug, effectively dragging him out of his reverie. He smiles into his friend’s shirt, pulling Bossuet close and hugging back tightly. Bossuet’s hugs are  _ magical. _

“Musichetta’s at work, but she’ll be back this afternoon.” Joly calls from the kitchen doorway. He’s balancing what looks like a ridiculously large breakfast casserole in one hand, feeling around on the counter next to him for something else, and Grantaire’s stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly. “Have you eaten?”

Grantaire thinks back to his dearly departed free pancakes, lost forever to his unforgiving kitchen floor, and shakes his head.

“We were just about to eat, why don’t you join us?” Bossuet pulls out a chair from the dining table, setting it down on three of his toes in the process.

“Both of you!” Joly adds in, having finally found the salt and pepper shakers on the counter. He makes his way over to the rest of them, setting the casserole on the table and kissing Bossuet - who is staring down at his injured foot like a kicked puppy - gently on the cheek. “And for fuck’s sake, R,  _ stay for dinner. _ Musichetta would gut us if she knew you stopped by and didn’t see her.”

The casserole is incredible, and Grantaire visibly relaxes his shoulders as he takes the first bite. For the first time in days, thoughts of Enjolras fly out of the window, and he feels more like he’s just come home than he has since moving out on his own.

 

Across town, Enjolras walks into the Musain with his head held high. R is nowhere to be seen, which is a disappointment and a relief at the same time. There is one familiar face, though - Musichetta stands behind the counter, wiping down the counter with a rag. She looks up when he walks in, and plasters on a wide smile.

“What can I get for you?” she asks, pulling a Sharpie out from behind her ear and standing ready to take the order. Enjolras swallows thickly.

“I’d like a job, please,” he says, and she drops the marker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments make this author's world go round. find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! sorry for vanishing for a week without letting you know, university caught up to me and i had to focus on my midterms for a bit. i hope this chapter doesn't sound too disjointed, ive spent a week writing nothing but research papers (damn you, psychology) and it was a bit more difficult than expected to get back into the right mindset for prose. regardless, i hope you all enjoy it, with luck i'll be updating regularly again!
> 
> also, if you get the chance, please check out the incredible [fanart](https://pertatoe.tumblr.com/post/158846905809/scene-from-prouvvaire-s-fic-yall-go-check-it) of the infamous free pancakes scene, courtesy of [this wonderful artist](http://pertatoe.tumblr.com)

“Wait, no,” he says as she's scrambling for the sharpie on the counter, although he’s speaking more to himself than to her. “That won't work. Can I try again?”

Musichetta grabs the marker just as it's about to roll off the edge of the counter, and she jerks her head up to stare at him, bushy hair falling around her face wildly. “What?”

“A job won't work. What I need is something more-” Enjolras racks his brains, trying to find a possible solution. “Do you host poetry nights? Open mics?”

“We do, but-”

“What am I saying, I can't write poetry-”

Musichetta cuts him off by slapping a hand down on the counter. He stops short, mouth hanging open comically, and only has the presence of mind to shut it when she takes her hand off the counter and uncaps the marker. “Your order?”

Enjolras fumbles for an answer, brain still whirling with potential ways to see R again. He stammers out a shaky, “Cappuccino, please, extra caramel,” before mentally smacking himself for forgetting Courfeyrac's original idea and following up with, “and can my student organization host meetings here?”

“Name?”

He blinks, trying to filter her words through the haze of jumbled thoughts in his head. “What? Oh- Enjolras. I’m Enjolras. Is that for the coffee or the question?”

Musichetta fixes him with a flat look and gives him no answer, only scribbling down his order onto the side of the cup and taking the card he holds out. She drifts away to make his coffee after ringing him up and he flounders in front of the register for a few moments, trying to decide whether to press for an answer or leave, before giving in and following her down the length of the counter. The coffee is quick work, he notices, or maybe it’s just a result of Musichetta’s extensive experience as a barista. Either way, its mere minutes before she presses the drink into his hands and, with a cursory glance at the door to check for incoming customers, steps out from behind the counter. Enjolras follows her to an empty table nearby, and sits down to sip his coffee while she runs a rag over the already clean wood, presumably as an excuse to talk to him privately. His mental friendship list is very pleased.

“So,” she says, looking Enjolras dead in the eye. She’s rather intimidating, he realizes, despite the fact that she’s near a foot shorter than him and armed with nothing but a cleaning cloth and a loosely tied apron. “You asked about coffee, job offers, poetry nights, and the upstairs room. You have your coffee, I assume poetry nights are off the table - care to explain the other two?”

Clearing his throat and taking a sip of his coffee - which is heavenly, thank you Musichetta - Enjolras takes a second to parse his thoughts before speaking. “I head a student organization that’s recently been - well, run out of our old meeting area. We’re a bit loud.” Musichetta nods at this. “I’m looking for a new venue to hold meetings, and a friend of mine heard that you rent out your second floor to independent clubs on occasion.”

“I do, but it does cost a bit.”

Enjolras nods, taking another sip of his coffee. They don’t exactly have the money to rent out a space - the university meeting halls had been free to students - but he’s sure that between himself, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, adequate funds could probably be pulled together in time.

“However, if you’re serious about the job,” Musichetta starts, taking a seat across from him, “One of my employees is leaving at the end of the month and I haven’t found a suitable replacement for the register yet. I could waive the fee if you wanted to work part time. The second floor is free aside from Tuesdays and Thursdays, you could have your pick of time and date.”

Enjolras is nodding halfway through her offer, thanking her profusely when she finishes speaking and leans back in her chair. It’s better than he could have hoped for; a somewhat free meeting space, an environment to finally  _ properly _ meet R -  _ and invite him to meetings _ , his brain supplies helpfully - and an extra source of income. Not that he had come into the Musain looking for work, that had been somewhat spur-of-the-moment (Combeferre would probably lecture him for days, and Courfeyrac would probably high-five him hard enough to dislocate his shoulder), but considering it after the fact, it isn’t such a bad deal. As Musichetta stands and returns to the counter, leaving him a business card with her name and number stamped across it, he drains the last of his drink and exits the Musain with a spring in his step and a smile on his face.

 

Joly and Bossuet assault Musichetta the second she opens the front door, peppering her with kisses and pulling the grocery bags from her arms. “How was work?” asks Joly, between pecking the tip of Musichetta’s nose and turning away towards the kitchen. Grantaire stands up from his seat on the couch, picking up his glass and making his way towards Musichetta for a hello. The whole thing is strangely domestic, making him feel as though he’s stepped back in time three weeks, and Musichetta is about to turn to him and kiss his cheek - but she’s answering Joly, calling towards the kitchen entryway, and Grantaire remains out of her line of sight. It’s a jarring reminder that he’s avoided her as much as anyone else, and the sinking feeling of guilt returns ever so slightly.

“Found a replacement for Floreal,” she’s saying, and the guilt washes away as Grantaire’s ears perk up at his ex-girlfriend’s name. When he had moved out on his own, she had only just given her resignation notice to Musichetta, with news that she was set to move out of state with her fiance. It had only stung a little when he first found out; he and Floreal had lasted a grand total of two months and ended with high school graduation, but Musichetta had been distraught at the idea of losing her best barista, and had even approached Grantaire to offer him a job - which he had turned down regretfully on the claim that his thesis project would take up far too much time to take on an extra job. Not that the income wouldn’t be welcome, but his commissions brought in enough money to pay for a shitty apartment, basic groceries, and cheap transport, and that was good enough for him. He’s glad Musichetta’s found someone, though, he knows she and Eponine can’t possibly hold the fort forever.

“Have you really?” Bossuet asks, following Joly into the kitchen with the rest of the groceries.

“He’s a little scattered, but he should do fine. I offered him the back room twice a week in exchange for part-time at the register, it’s no skin off my back or the Musain’s pocketbooks.” She breaks off to drop her purse on the table and shed her thick jacket. “He’s pretty enough to raise sales, too, although his name’s a little weird. Ange-something. Enjolras, I think.”

Grantaire promptly catches his foot on the corner of the couch, and hits the floor in a flurry of limbs and spilled water. Three pairs of eyes snap to look at him, and Musichetta claps her hands together in glee and squeals, “ _ Grantaire! _ ”

“I stopped by,” he forces out as he struggles to his feet, wincing as he registers the beginnings of a nasty bruise on his left knee. “What’s this about a new employee?”

Musichetta shushes him before he can even get the words out, enveloping him in a hug that smells like cinnamon and  _ home. _ “We can focus on that later, sweetheart, you haven’t been back in weeks and I  _ miss _ movie nights with you.”

“No, I  _ really _ think we should talk about this,” he says, patting her shoulder. “It sounds important.”

“More important that you coming home?”

Finally, Musichetta drops her arms, and Grantaire throws a pleading look at Joly and Bossuet, whose eyes widen in realization as soon as Grantaire mouths ‘Enjolras.’ Eponine had taken it upon herself to explain the entire situation to them before leaving for her shift at the Musain, and they had -  _ thankfully _ \- responded with pity and concern instead of amusement. Now, their expressions mirrored that pity and concern, and they hurried into the living room.

“Oh,  _ R, _ ” Joly says, taking Grantaire’s hand in his own and squeezing it. “You’ll be alright, yeah?”

He can’t do anything but groan in response. Musichetta looks between the three of them, Grantaire’s pale face, Joly holding his hand, and Bossuet with a hand on his shoulder. “Does anyone want to explain, or am I just supposed to stand here and guess until I get it right?”

Joly flounders for an answer and Bossuet’s grip on his shoulder tightens; Grantaire finds himself wondering if soon he’ll know  _ anyone _ that isn’t involved with his ridiculous rom-com love life. Or creepy unrequited secret love life, if he wants to be self-deprecating. 

“Get me a drink and I’ll tell you all about it,” he sighs, and Musichetta pulls him in for another hug.

 

The slam of Grantaire’s front door is audible even over the sound of NBC’s finest, and it’s late enough into the night to startle Enjolras into muting the television. Grantaire’s apartment had been silent all day, and Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief at the proof that he really was out and not just unconscious or avoiding him. Still, the footsteps are too heavy, and the open and shut of doors too loud and pronounced through the thin walls between them, that Enjolras knows something is off. 

A woman’s voice reaches his ears, low and soothing and muffled enough that Enjolras can only make out a few words, and then the front door opens and closes again, much softer. Enjolras leaves the television muted, following the sound of Grantaire’s heavy footsteps through the apartment, fading into the distance before reappearing several moments later. A door opens, the sound too clear to be anything but Grantaire’s bedroom - directly on the other side of the wall. Judging by the various thuds and crashes, Grantaire’s tripping over anything in his path, before falling onto his bed with a thump of the frame against the other side of the wall.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras tries, hesitantly. He’s met with a groan that fills the silent air far too easily.

“Wh’ time issit?” Grantaire’s speech is slurred and barely understandable; he’s either too tired to function or well past drunk. Enjolras glances at his clock.

“Half one,” he replies, abandoning the news in favor of sitting on his bed with his back to their shared wall. “Rough night?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe, Ap-” Grantaire breaks off, coughing sharply. “Enjolras.”

A sharp stab of pity pierces Enjolras; Grantaire sounds absolutely wrecked. His friends may claim he’s a robot, but he does feel some empathy for his neighbor, enough to make him wince at the hoarse timber and drunken slur of Grantaire’s voice. “Tell me about it?”

“You don’t want that.”

“Try me.” Enjolras tips his head back against the cold drywall, wondering if Grantaire is doing the same, or if he’s curled up under his blankets. The sound of his voice, when it comes, is too small and far too generalized for Enjolras to pinpoint the source.

“My ex is getting married,” Grantaire says, sounding somewhat like he’s curled in on himself. Enjolras wants to give him a hug.

“I’m sorry, I-” Enjolras starts, but he’s cut off by a harsh, self-deprecating laugh.

“Don’t be, it’s not like that. I don’t miss her or anything, it’s just - a reminder that I’m not, y’know?” Grantaire laughs again, low and wheezing, and Enjolras can’t think of anything better to do than knock against the wall lightly. He lets his knuckles rest there, his arm outstretched, his legs numbing with the uncomfortable position he’s sitting in.

“The guy I like doesn’t know I exist, if that helps,” he says, after a long moment. When Grantaire responds, his voice sounds weak, like he’s been punched in the gut.

“His loss,” is the answer, and then Grantaire is silent.

“Hers, too,” Enjolras whispers, but he isn’t sure if Grantaire hears it. Either way, there’s no reply from the neighboring apartment, and after a few minutes of waiting Enjolras clicks off the television and sinks into his bed. “Goodnight, Grantaire.”

 

“Goodnight, Enjolras,” Grantaire replies, his palm pressed against the wall between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, kudos and comments will earn you my undying and eternal love. i'm on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when will enjolras and grantaire finally stop dancing around each other? only time will tell!
> 
> bit of a short chapter this time, i had planned to make it longer but didn't want to switch into enjolras' pov for just a few hundred words. we'll start off with him next time, i promise. anyway, enjoy!

With the combined efforts of Musichetta and Courfeyrac at his disposal, Grantaire manages a stellar job of avoiding Enjolras at work for the next week. He keeps a copy of Enjolras’ schedule in his sketchbook, courtesy of Musichetta, as well as times and dates of his meetings, courtesy of Courfeyrac; he only ever turns up at the Musain when he’s absolutely sure he won't accidentally run into Enjolras. His usual figure drawing practice suffers for it ever so slightly, but he throws himself into planning his thesis to make up for it.

Enjolras, on the other hand, has been more talkative than ever when at home. Most nights are spent curled up on the corner of his bed, his fingers wrapped around a pencil and sketchbook or the neck of a bottle, trading opinions and arguments through the apartment wall. Grantaire tells Enjolras about his art program, about Floreal, about his day, about anything that comes to mind in his dark bedroom; Enjolras repays him in kind with tales of Courfeyrac and Combeferre as children and the horrors of upper-division political science classes and bar exam study groups. Grantaire learns that Enjolras is a rich kid self-estranged from his conservative family, that he volunteers part-time at a non-profit law firm, and that he heads the student group responsible for organizing every successful university protest in the past five years. Enjolras is bright, and radiant, and ridiculously opinionated past Grantaire's first experience of his unbridled hatred for Lester Holt. This doesn't come as much of a surprise, but he is a bit shocked when he realizes that not only is Enjolras opinionated, but he actually  _ believes _ he can change things, he's  _ convinced _ that students like him can make a real difference in the world. Grantaire figures that's why Enjolras went into politics and law, while Grantaire’s happy in the art department.

“You should come to a meeting,” Enjolras says five days in, as Grantaire puts the finishing touches on a rather detailed sketch of Eponine and Gavroche.

“I really shouldn't,” is his short reply, because he can’t exactly say  _ I don't plan on ever letting you see me in person so I won't show up unless you hold meetings in a pitch-black room _ . “I’m not like you and your friends, I don't believe in change or anything.”

Enjolras snorts. “You’re smart, Grantaire, and I  _ know  _ you're not a bigot, or I wouldn't still be talking to you.”

There's a snap as the lead of Grantaire’s pencil breaks, just as he finishes off a button on Gavroche’s shirt, and he sighs and puts his sketchbook down at his side. “The world isn't split into bigots and liberal activists, Enjolras. I’m not a dick, I just- I don't think waving a few pieces of cardboard around and shouting at cameras does much to fix the world.”

“What, and you think sitting around and doing nothing will?” The words sound vicious, bitten out as if Enjolras is holding himself back from saying more - and with his track record of night-time rants, Grantaire wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

“Obviously not. All I’m saying is I’d rather lose with grace than spend all my time and energy on pointless reform efforts. Nothing ever gets better anyway, it’s all the same shitty oppression dressed up in shiny new clothes. Do what you like, Enjolras, you won’t catch me holding signs on the streets with the rest of you.”   


Enjolras is silent for a long while, and Grantaire shuts his sketchbook and tucks it neatly underneath his bed.

“The offer stands, whether or not you take it,” Enjolras says after a bit, his voice pinched and tense, and Grantaire nods before he remembers Enjolras can’t exactly see him.

“Right,” he says instead. “Thanks.”

 

Other times, Enjolras talks about his love interest, with a lilt in his voice that sets Grantaire's teeth on edge and makes his stomach twist uncomfortably under his skin. The day after the failed invitation, he’s dragging a stack of new canvases into his room when he hears Enjolras sink down into bed and knock his head heavily against the wall.

“Rough day?” Grantaire asks, abandoning the canvases in favor of sitting on his own bed to listen.  _ God,  _ he’s pathetic.

“He hasn't come in all week,” Enjolras says, his voice weak enough to make Grantaire worry.

“Who, your lover boy?” The words send a spike of sharp envy through Grantaire's lungs, but he explains it away as his need to gather enough information about Enjolras’ type as possible. “He can't possibly be avoiding you if he doesn't know you exist, he’s probably just busy.”

“I saw him  _ two days in a row, _ ” Enjolras whines, “and he stops showing up the  _ day _ I get a job. That can't be a coincidence.”

“Two days is hardly a pattern,” Grantaire chides, although he’s mentally sorting through the faces of everyone he’s seen at the Musain in the past two weeks. “What's so special about this guy, anyway?”

“ _ Nothing,  _ that's the worst part. Courfeyrac and his damn mouth.”

Grantaire blinks. “You're in love with Courfeyrac?”

“What? No -  _ gross. _ ”

“Who, then?”

Enjolras is silent for a worryingly long amount amount of time before he speaks again, his voice quiet and somewhat abashed. “Would you believe me if I said I couldn't tell you?”

Grantaire laughs, knocking his knuckles against the wall to remind Enjolras that he’s not being condescending - or at least, not  _ entirely _ condescending. “Come on, it's not like he’s anyone I know. My list of male friends starts with two guys in a relationship with each other and the local hospital, and ends with a man so straight he has  _ me _ reconsidering men every time I see him. Your secret is safe with me, Enjolras.”

“No, I really  _ can't tell you. _ I don't know his full name.”

Grantaire nearly laughs at him again, before remembering that he was painting Enjolras with the devotion of a lover before even knowing who he was. So much for superiority.

“That's pathetic, isn't it?” Enjolras asks. “And I’m not in love with him, I don't even  _ know _ him yet. It’s just - I don’t know, an aesthetic attraction or a curiosity or something. Courfeyrac wouldn't stop talking about him.”

Grantaire vows to get the information out of Courfeyrac, one way or another. He  _ really _ hopes it isn't Jehan - Enjolras doesn't seem his type, and he'd feel worse than ever for Courfeyrac if it turns out he likes the same guy as his best friend.

“It's the twenty-first century, Enjolras, you can call it a crush,” he says, in lieu of voicing his actual thoughts, and Enjolras laughs.

“A crush then, fine. Point is, I haven't properly met him and I  _ want  _ to, but if he never shows up at the Musain again I can't.”

Grantaire sighs, softly enough that he hopes Enjolras can’t hear it through the wall. His heart is pounding a frenzied beat against his ribcage, and his stomach is twisting into knots he fears he’ll have to settle with alcohol, but the knowledge that Enjolras isn’t actually  _ in love _ with anyone is a small point of relief in the whirling storm of his thoughts. He turns his face and presses his cheek against the wall, partially to ground himself in the cold paint against his skin but mostly to imagine himself that much closer to Enjolras - now that he’s gotten to know the man he’s more enamoured than ever, and feels both more and less guilty in his own fantastical indulgences.

“He’ll show up, Apollo,” Grantaire says, and then sucks in a sharp breath at the realization of his words. He squeezes his eyes shut, clenching fingers into fists and hoping Enjolras doesn’t catch on -

“Apollo?” Enjolras repeats, because the universe has a personal vendetta against Grantaire.

“Enjolras. Slip of the tongue.”

There are no more words that night, only uncomfortable silence and fitful sleep.

 

Grantaire’s train of luck derails, crashes, and explodes violently the next morning.

It's Courfeyrac’s fault, to some extent, but Grantaire can forgive him the error; he hadn't exactly paid attention to the clock while passing time talking to Eponine and sketching her hands as they set to work on various orders. The morning had been perfectly quiet and uneventful, his guard is down, he's not really paying attention to the rest of the cafe - he's even managed to keep his thoughts off Enjolras for a solid chunk of time, which he thinks is an accomplishment deserving of merit in its own right. All this makes it that much worse, though, when he feels a hand come down hard on his shoulder and turns to look Courfeyrac full in the face.

“What are you  _ doing  _ here?”

“You have to leave,” Courfeyrac hisses breathlessly. “He’ll be here any minute.” Combeferre is behind him, ignoring Grantaire in favor of staring at Eponine with increasingly wide eyes. Grantaire would take pity on him, if it weren't for the fact that  _ Enjolras is about to walk through the front door. _ Courfeyrac is looking between him and Eponine, flapping his hands at the wrist in a sort of misguided ‘leave’ gesture, as if he doesn't know full well that Grantaire's only route of escape is the same one that Enjolras could come through at any moment. 

“There's no meeting today,” he says weakly, hoping someone will pop up from behind the counter with a camera and confetti bomb shouting  _ it’s a joke! Got you good, Grantaire! _ Nothing of the sort happens, obviously, so Grantaire forces out an even weaker, “He doesn't work today.”

“We're meeting in five to go over the meeting topics, I texted you about it as soon as I heard.”

Grantaire stiffens at that, because he  _ had _ felt his phone go off in his pocket, but had ignored it in his attempts to get Eponine’s scornful expression  _ just right  _ as she turned away to make coffee for a particularly nasty customer.

“What do I  _ do, _ ” he whines, just as the bell on the front door chimes and Enjolras steps into the Musain, looking like a divine vision. Grantaire feels a bit weak at the knees; he hasn't seen Enjolras in person in a week and the time apart has done  _ nothing  _ to help his sensibilities. Combeferre, the saint, steps easily between him and Enjolras, effectively cutting off Enjolras’ direct line of sight, and Courfeyrac leans in to whisper in his ear.

“He knows you as R,” he says. “Find an excuse to leave as soon as you can.”

Thankfully for Grantaire, Eponine and Combeferre have enough sense to corral Enjolras into ordering coffee before he can reach Grantaire, but he’s forced to hurry his goodbyes and flee the Musain as soon as Enjolras passes Combeferre’s human shield and looks Grantaire square in the face. He's relatively in the clear, though, Enjolras is far too nice to abandon Eponine’s questions in favor of approaching him - although he settles for a shocked _"R!"_ that Grantaire firmly ignores - and once he regains enough feeling in his legs to hurry out the front door, he feels the weight of a stare on his back. He hopes beyond anything else that it's Courfeyrac, and not the alternative.

Grantaire all but sprints away from the Musain, paying no mind to where he’s headed until he's far out of sight of the cafe. He slows to a stop, then, on the corner of a street halfway to Gavroche’s school, and pulls out his phone to text Eponine.

_ i’ll pick up gav when he gets out of class, meet us at mine after work, drinks on me,  _ he sends; then, after a moment of hesitation,  _ thank you. _

With that, he sinks against the brick exterior of the nearest building and hangs his head in frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos, comments, etc, etc. find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy, we're earning that E rating now, folks. very mild nsfw in this chapter, but for those of you who want to keep up with the story but aren't up to reading anything R18, i've added a section break to mark where you can skip it (for future reference, this will be how i mark nsfw sections, although i'll always add a little warning in the chapter notes beforehand). just read up until the big horizontal line, then skip the rest of the chapter. you won't miss anything too important, i promise! check end notes for a short sfw summary of what happens!
> 
> it pains me a little to tell you this, but this is where the story starts to take a turn for the sad - not as much focus on the cute rom-com hijinks from here on out, but the plot is really starting to pick up. happy endings are promised, but i can't speak for the story between now and then. enjoy!

Enjolras is on Courfeyrac the second the door of the Musain swings shut.

“You  _ talked _ to him,” he accuses, crowding Courfeyrac into the pickup counter. “You talked to him, what did you  _ say? _ Why did he leave?” He’s well aware that he’s being too loud for the cafe; Combeferre approaches with a hand outstretched to placate him, he shakes it off and turns back to Courfeyrac. He’s caught rather violently between the urge to stay and wring every drop of information he can out of Courfeyrac, and the urge to follow R out of the Musain and find out just why he left. On one hand, he doesn’t make a scene and Courfeyrac can help him figure this out like the best friend he’s supposed to be; on the other, he can finally meet R properly, even if he seems like a bit of a creep in the process. The decision is made for him, though, in the form of Combeferre taking his elbow firmly and leading him to an empty table.

He feels a little bit like he’s at an intervention, with Combeferre standing over him intimidatingly, one hand on his shoulder, and Courfeyrac sitting across the table, fingers steepled under his nose like some sort of supervillain.

“Enjolras,” says Courfeyrac, “for the sake of my love life,  _ please _ drop this.” Combeferre’s grip on his shoulder tightens imperceptibly.

“ _ Your _ love life?”

“Yes, Enjolras,  _ my _ love life. Which will get much farther than yours, by the way, if you keep acting like this.”

Enjolras scoffs. “Acting like what?” A flat look meets him, out of place on Courfeyrac’s normally expressive face, and when Enjolras cranes his neck up and around the same expression sits on Combeferre’s features. He sighs. “He’s avoiding me, isn’t he? He left as soon as I walked in, I  _ told _ Grantaire that-”

“You told Grantaire  _ what? _ ” Courfeyrac cuts in, his voice a bit panicked, and Enjolras is suddenly finding it very hard to breathe.

“That I thought R was purposefully ignoring me, that’s all. Why does it matter?”

Courfeyrac lets out a long, slow breath, visibly relaxing his shoulders, and Enjolras gets the sense that he’s missing something very, very important. He wonders if maybe he said something out of line to Grantaire, or somehow managed to scare off R despite only ever having said a handful of words to him in passing. A feeling of ominous disjunction settles heavy over his head, like he’s trying to put together a puzzle with pieces from seven different boxes. He blinks at Courfeyrac once, twice, making a concerted effort to find just two paired pieces, if only to understand a single thread of the tangled knot making up his thoughts.

“You’re…” he says slowly, squinting at Courfeyrac as if it’ll make the pieces snap into place. “You’re in love...with Grantaire?”

Courfeyrac makes an odd choking noise. “What? Where on  _ earth _ did you get that idea?”

“You’re not? But you were talking about- and he thought-”

“ _ No, _ Enjolras, I’m not in love with Grantaire.”

Well then, he’s back to square one. He isn’t entirely sure how Grantaire fits into the equation now, aside from being yet another person who knows about his ridiculous crush on a near stranger, but Courfeyrac seems rather intent on making sure Enjolras hasn’t said too much to his neighbor. Suffice to say, he has absolutely no idea what’s going on, but Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s expressions have shifted back to flat and unassuming, and Enjolras gets the feeling they don’t plan on filling him in anytime soon.

So, instead of pressing the issue more, he pulls his meeting notes out of his bag and changes the topic as quickly and painlessly as he can manage.

 

Grantaire doesn’t realize his error until he’s feet away from the front gates of Gavroche’s middle school; it’s barely noon and Gavroche doesn’t end classes for another three hours. He paces for a bit, probably looking far too out of place in front of a school full of prepubescent teenagers, before sighing loudly and setting off down the street to his left. He doesn’t know where it leads, he’s only ever gone straight home from the school, but he figures a nice walk might clear his head after the catastrophe at the Musain.

He walks for what feels like an hour, between nothing but dilapidated brick offices and newer-looking nameless buildings, scuffing his feet against the pavement. Overhead, the sun offers a weak ray of warmth despite the chill of the wind, and he pulls his jacket tight around his frame. Usually, he’d have no qualms about turning back around and sitting in the Musain for three hours, good-naturedly harassing whichever of his friends happened to be on shift at the time; god knows he’s passed more than enough days like that in the past. As things are now, though, he’s not sure he’ll set foot within a half mile radius of the place in the next day or two, not if there’s a possibility he might run into Enjolras again.

Absently, he wonders if Enjolras’ mystery crush had been there. He hadn’t noticed anyone particularly striking - not that he’d been looking - but he’s been away for a decent while now and anyone could have walked into the coffee shop in that time. He makes a mental note to ask Enjolras about it that night, before balking at the realization that Enjolras might try and talk to  _ him _ about it, first. He isn’t sure when he became his neighbor’s own personal rant target, but he knows for a fact he won’t last through the object of his affections waxing poetic about the object of  _ his _ affections without at least a decent amount of alcohol in his system. 

He isn’t sure how far down the street he’s gone at this point, but the row of stuffy office buildings ends abruptly, and he notices this just in time to pull up short on the street corner. After the intersection is a residential area, and Grantaire shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and turns back around.

Gavroche is waiting by the gates when he reaches the school, and nearly tackles Grantaire in his hello.

“‘S Ep coming back to yours?” He asks, swatting away the hand Grantaire reaches out to ruffle his hair with, and grins widely when Grantaire nods in response.

“School was okay?” he asks, more as a force of habit than as an actual question, because Gavroche had never answered before and he wasn’t likely to start today.

“Ep says you’ve got a boyfriend,” he says instead, matter-of-factly. “Say’s he’s real pretty. Can I meet him?”

Grantaire snorts, although the words  _ boyfriend _ and  _ pretty _ sent a bit of a shock up his spine. “Your sister needs to mind her own business, kid.”

“So you do have a boyfriend?”

“ _ No _ , I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m as single and pathetic as ever.” He half expects teasing and ribbing from the kid, but Gavroche just whoops and pumps his fist instead. Grantaire snorts. “What, you like being able to make fun of me, is that it?”

“Nah,” says Gavroche, with the feigned indifference Grantaire knows hides something more, unsaid. “Don’t wanna give up my controller on video game nights. And Ep would be sad if you stopped spending time with us.” The weight that had settled in Grantaire’s stomach lightens ever so slightly, and he nudges Gavroche lightly with his shoulder. 

“I’ll never leave you guys, kid, you know that,” he says, and the two of them start down the street towards Grantaire’s apartment.

 

There are voices coming from Grantaire’s apartment when Enjolras gets home, late into the evening. He pays little mind, though, only going so far as to knock softly against their shared wall - in case Grantaire is awake and listening - before sinking into his bed. He reaches for the television remote, switching the screen on, then off again after the realization that he’s in no mood for world events. Instead, he tosses and turns in the mess of his covers for a few moments, attempting to get comfortable. When that proves to be a fruitless endeavour, he heaves himself up off the bed with an exaggerated groan and pads to the kitchen.

He’s not a great cook by any standards, but he knows his way around instant rice and boxed pasta meals decently enough. Combeferre had tried to teach him to bake once, for a high school home ec class, but it hadn’t gone well. Sometimes, Courfeyrac jokes that he still found spilled flour on his parents’ kitchen floor - Enjolras doesn’t find the joke very funny, but Combeferre does, inexplicably.

There’s sudden, loud laughter from Grantaire’s living room, and Enjolras finds himself wondering absently if Grantaire would find the joke funny.

He’s still not sure how Grantaire factors into this whole mess, only that he does; Courfeyrac had given that much away. He’s never met the man, not in person at least, but he’d like to think after a couple weeks of talking to the guy he’s got a pretty good handle on his character. Grantaire is witty, talented, and intelligent - albeit a bit politically misguided, but Enjolras doesn’t expect everyone to be so open-minded upon first meeting. He hadn’t run screaming in the other direction the second he heard Enjolras talking to his television, which was a plus. Other than that, though, Enjolras realizes he doesn’t know much about his neighbor after all. He doesn’t know who Grantaire is friends with, other than  _ apparently  _ Courfeyrac, he doesn’t know what Grantaire does for fun, other than get drunk in his bedroom on occasion. Vaguely, he thinks he can remember Grantaire mentioning something about liking men at one point - although his memory isn’t the best when it comes to conversations about R, he’s usually too wrapped up in his own head to hear much of anything else.

He’ll try again, he decides. He’ll invite Grantaire to another meeting, and try to befriend him outside of meetings if he’s turned down again. After all, it’s not that his neighbor is bigoted or anything, he’s just a little lackluster when it comes to social change - Enjolras is sure that he can make Grantaire see sense with enough time.

With that thought in mind, he turns back to his cooking, humming softly under his breath as he stirs the food.

 

Eponine and Gavroche leave early that night, Eponine apologizing and grumbling about morning shifts as she tries to pry a sneakily swiped beer from Gavroche’s hands. Grantaire sees them to the door with a smile on his face and a hair ruffle for Gavroche, kissing Eponine cheerfully on the cheek as she struggles to pull on a shoe.

“You’ll be okay, R?” she asks him. “You’ll call me if things get too tough for you here? You know my couch is always free, and Musichetta would say the same.”

He smiles at her, and hopes it comes off less drained than he feels. “I’ll be fine, ‘Ponine, you worry about me too much.”

She sighs, finally managing to fit the shoe on and standing up fully to pull him in for a hug. He returns the gesture, kissing the top of her head one more time before letting go and waving her and Gavroche down the stairs. Gavroche stops at the foot of the stairs, turning back and waving, and Grantaire’s chest tightens uncomfortably. He waves back, keeping his hand raised until the two of them have disappeared out of sight of his front door.

Alone, finally, he closes the door and sinks against it heavily.

* * *

 

He hasn’t been able to get the vision of Enjolras out of his head all afternoon, and he’s spent the better part of the evening trying to drink away mental snapshots of his golden god with windblown hair, cascading around a collarbone peeking out from behind the soft fabric of a low-cut shirt, striking blue eyes contrasting fiercely with the red of cold-flushed cheeks and nose and lips - and oh, he  _ really _ doesn’t need to be thinking about Enjolras’ lips, but the vision is there and he can’t escape it now that it’s taken root behind his eyelids.

He’s almost painfully hard, but his better sense keeps him from tugging one out against his front door when Enjolras could be home and could  _ hear him _ \- but now that he thinks about it, the neighboring apartment has been almost worryingly silent the entire evening. Enjolras could be anywhere; at a bar with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, at the local library studying, at his law firm finishing up a case, there’s nothing to indicate he’s even in the building to hear Grantaire in the first place.

Just to be safe, he tiptoes silently across his living room to his bedroom door, ears pricked for the slightest noise from the other side of the wall, but he hears nothing. Once in his room, he draws in a sharp breath in anticipation (or maybe worry), sitting down on his uneven mattress and knocking firmly against the wall.

No response.

The breath leaves his lungs in a single exhale, and he relaxes against the wall, comfortable enough to palm himself through his jeans. He bites back a groan at first contact - it’s been too long, he’s been too nervous to relieve himself anywhere but the shower for fear of Enjolras hearing, and even the shower proves uncomfortable after a short while. Visions of Enjolras float unbidden behind his closed eyelids, soft skin shedding layers of fabric, legs that seem to extend for miles spreading and wrapping themselves around his waist; Grantaire allows himself a little more pressure and his head falls back against the wall with a loud thud at the sensation. His mouth falls open in a silent plea as he finally,  _ finally _ flicks open the button of his jeans, and soon he is groaning loud enough to fill the silence of his cluttered bedroom.

Loud enough, even, to cover the sound of Enjolras’ bedroom door opening and closing quietly, and the soft gasp of surprise that filters through the thin wall.

 

Enjolras can’t breathe. 

He can’t breathe, he can’t move, he can’t  _ think _ because the only thing running through his head is an endless litany of  _ Grantaire naked moaning Grantaire holy shit.  _ The proper thing to do in this situation is probably leave, or hole himself up in the furthest room of his apartment, or put in his headphones and blast music loud enough to cover the breathy noises audible through the wall, but all Enjolras can do is stand in the doorway to his bedroom and gape like an idiot because he can  _ hear his neighbor jerking off _ and considering he may or may not have attributed Grantaire’s voice to R’s face at one point or another - 

God, no, that’s the last thing he needs to be thinking about - but the thought comes anyway, the mental image of R spread and wanton, rough and capable hands reaching between strong thighs and  _ he is not thinking about this right now _ . He resists the urge to physically smack his cheeks, if only to pull himself out of the daze that Grantaire’s voice seems to have thrust him into. Leaving now is out of the question, opening and closing the door might bring attention to him and the last thing he wants is for Grantaire to  _ know _ he had heard - and listened, even - so his only options left are to stay and listen, or to stay and drown himself in music until enough time has passed that it’s safe to regain his sense of hearing. The choice is obvious, of course.

Steeling himself against his rational half, Enjolras lowers himself noiselessly onto his bed, and tries not to think too much about R voicing Grantaire’s hoarse, ragged moans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! for any of you who skipped the R18 bits, here's all you need to know: after eponine left, grantaire thought enjolras wasn't home and decided to give himself a little one-on-one stress relief. enjolras was very much home, however, and was very much listening through the wall.
> 
> every single comment i get on this fic inspires me to keep writing, honestly. its like im pavlov's dog every time i hear the new email notification on my phone, i immediately check to see if its a new comment. to all of you that give me such wonderful feedback: thank you, from the bottom of my heart. you keep authors like me writing for readers like you.
> 
> i'm on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm currently fighting off a particularly nasty head cold, but i couldn't possibly let that stop me from giving you all the newest chapter. much love to all of you sticking with this fic despite the somewhat irregular update schedule - you're all heroes in my book. here's hoping i can get over this cold soon so i can give you all an even better chapter.
> 
> if you catch the song reference in this chapter, i will love you forever and ever.
> 
> enjoy!

Enjolras stays sitting stiffly on his bed for nearly half an hour after Grantaire finally goes silent, his hands clenched tightly around his thighs, fingers digging into skin and a hot flush high on his cheeks. Shame curls tightly in his gut, and he can't quite shake it with his attempts at rationalizing his actions - it's not like he could have  _ left _ after that, Grantaire could have heard him open the door and that would just be  _ awkward _ \- so instead, he turns his thoughts to figuring out what to do now. He could try to go to sleep and forget about everything that had happened in the past hour, but he gets the feeling he won't be able to rest very well with a painful erection tenting the fabric over his crotch. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries very hard to will it away, to no avail.

Suffering it is, then.

Settling on a single course of action, he gets up from the bed as quietly as he possibly can - testing his weight on the floor before standing up for fear his legs might just give way beneath him - and opens his bedroom door loudly, before closing it again. He pads back to his bed, steps as heavy as he can manage in his distracted state, and knocks on the wall.

“Grantaire?” he calls, and winces when he hears how ragged his voice has become. There’s some shuffling on the other side of the wall, then what sounds like Grantaire knocking his elbow against the drywall followed by a hissed expletive.

“That you, Enjolras? How long have you been here?” He sounds panicked, although his voice is still a low rumble that does absolutely nothing to help Enjolras’ unfortunate situation, and Enjolras sends a silent thanks to whoever is listening that Grantaire hasn't called his bluff yet.

“Just got home,” he lies, trying to force his voice into a more natural register. “Spent the evening at the firm.”

He  _ hadn't  _ spent the evening at the firm, and he hopes Grantaire doesn't try to fact-check with Courfeyrac because Enjolras is fairly sure Courfeyrac  _ had. _ He realizes too late that his alibi is horribly flawed, and crosses his fingers as he waits for Grantaire’s answer.

“Oh, okay then,” his neighbor breathes, sounding impossibly relieved. Enjolras can relate. “Hard case?”

Enjolras lets out an imperceptible chuckle. “You could say that. Just a rough day, really.”

Grantaire is worryingly silent for a long while, before he replies in a small voice, “What happened?”

Enjolras isn't sure if he wants to recant the entire story of what had happened in the Musain; R catching sight of him and bolting like a spooked rabbit, Enjolras spending near the rest of the afternoon at a back table in the hopes he would come back again - but Grantaire saves him the effort of having to explain it all. “Lover boy again?” he asks, sounding inexplicably tense, and Enjolras wonders if romance is something of a taboo subject with his neighbor; Grantaire seems to close himself off whenever the topic is even suggested.

“You guessed it,” he says, sparing his neighbor the details in favor of curling in on himself instead.

“He’s an idiot if he doesn't appreciate you,” Grantaire says, startling Enjolras enough that he jerks around to stare at the wall, as if Grantaire had suddenly manifested on his side of it. “You're smart and determined and all this other crap that most people aren't.”

“So are you,” he replies, realizing after the words are out that the statement is truer than he had originally meant it to be. “I mean, I haven't exactly met you but I can tell you're smart.”

“Incorrect, and beside the point,” is his neighbor’s short reply. “You're the kind of person that people want to listen to. No one stops twice for a starving artist with pessimistic opinions, but you've got that whole ‘listen to me, I know things’ aura around you.”

Enjolras scoffs, suddenly all too eager to shift the attention away from himself. This conversation is drifting dangerously close to feelings territory, and he’s worried that any talk about R will lead to Grantaire somehow figuring out that Enjolras had spent an hour listening to him jerk off through a wall, and that could  _ not _ happen.

“You don't give yourself enough credit, Grantaire,” he says instead. “You could do so much more with yourself than just art, you know. I’ve heard you talk.”

Grantaire is silent again, long enough to make Enjolras wonder if he had somehow fallen asleep mid-conversation; but then he’s speaking again, his voice tense.

“What's wrong with art?”

Enjolras goes over his previous statement and backpedals, hastily stammering out, “Nothing! All I meant was that you have other strengths, that’s all. It’s no business of mine what you want to devote yourself to, I just meant that you have so much-”

“If you say ‘potential,’ Enjolras, I’m leaving.”

Enjolras is struck dumb. He’s at a loss for words, unsure of what had made Grantaire so angry in the first place.

“What’s wrong with that?” he asks instead, warily. “You  _ do _ have potential, that’s not a bad thing.”

Grantaire shifts around again, the rustle of blankets clearly audible through the wall. “You haven't even  _ met  _ me, Enjolras,” he bites out harshly. “You have no idea how much fucking  _ potential  _ I have - or don’t.”

Enjolras’ head is whirling, he has no idea how their conversation turned into a full-blown argument. “I’m sorry,” he says, over the sound of Grantaire pacing around his room. “Look, why don’t you just come to a meeting sometime, you can see what I mean about you having good ideas, just-”

It's not how he had planned to invite Grantaire, but that doesn’t matter either way - he’s cut off by the sound of Grantaire’s door slamming, plunging both apartments into suffocating silence.

 

Blood rushes in Grantaire’s ears as he barrels down the stairway towards the main door of the apartment complex, his head pounding an unforgiving rhythm of  _ you have potential you have potential you have potential. _ Enjolras doesn't know a  _ single fucking thing,  _ he thinks viciously, scrambling in his pockets for a cigarette that he lights with shaking fingers. The walk to Musichetta’s isn't long, but Eponine’s is closer and she’ll probably still be awake - it's far past midnight and he doesn't want to disturb anyone that's trying to sleep at a decent hour. The cigarette burns down to a stub that singes his fingers before he finally puts it out beneath the heel of a worn out sneaker and lights another. He can't shake the sound of Enjolras’ voice, the disgusting pity that had dripped from every word out of those beautiful lips; his skin crawls at the thought of Enjolras pitying  _ him  _ moments after he had spent into his own hand at the thought of Enjolras’ soft skin.

His head is whirling, Enjolras’  _ potential potential potential  _ mixed with his own personal mantra of  _ art is good art is safe art is good art is safe _ in a thunderous cacophony that threatens to force him to his knees with the weight of the words. He's long since come to terms with his own uselessness; but Enjolras seems to have dragged up a long-sleeping beast determined to rip away the last vestiges of Grantaire's crumbling self esteem - _how low can it possibly be,_ he asks himself, before realizing he really doesn't want to know the answer to that question. He doesn't need  _ pity,  _ he tells himself, much less the pity of the man he likes.

Nearly half the pack of cigarettes is gone by the time he reaches Eponine's dilapidated apartment complex, left scattered in a vague trail on the streets behind him. He fumbles for the spare key Eponine left him, before realizing he had stormed out of his apartment without taking anything with him. Instead, he knocks sharply on the door, hoping at least Gavroche is still awake. There's a quick, muffled conversation before the door swings open to reveal Eponine in a ratty pair of pajamas and oversized bunny slippers.

“Oh,  _ Grantaire,” _ she says, the scowl falling off her face the second she sees him slumped against the doorframe. She ushers him inside, sitting him down on the couch and shoving a glass of water into his trembling hands -  _ fuck, Grantaire, how much have you smoked, _ she asks when she catches sight of his twitching fingers - before sending Gavroche to play video games in his room and taking a seat on the cushion  next to him.

“Did something happen?” she asks, as Grantaire sets the glass of water on the coffee table and sinks down to lay his head across her lap. She cards her fingers through his hair slowly, comfortingly, the way he did to her on particularly bad nights in high school and during the Marius era.

“He said I had  _ potential,” _ he croaks, and suddenly it's like a dam has broken. Hot tears prick at his eyes and trail scalding pathways down his cheeks, and before he knows it he’s curled up in Eponine’s arms, sobbing brokenly into her fleece pajama pants. She pats him through it, whispering soft words that he only half registers, sitting there for what could be hours as he twitches and shakes. He’s never had a friend as good as her, he thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind.

It's close to two in the morning when he finally drifts off to sleep, tears and sobs having long given way to silent, agonized shakes of his shoulders. Vaguely, he’s aware of Eponine taking off his shoes and draping a soft blanket over him, but the sensation is lost in a hazy muddle of black that drags him deeper and deeper into a defeated, bone-tired sleep.

The one thing he's most thankful for, he thinks as fatigue finally overtakes him, is that he’s exhausted enough to pass the night without the usual plague of dreams about Enjolras.

 

He wakes to the sound of Gavroche crashing around in the kitchen, pulling down boxes to pour his usual abomination of a cereal mix. Grantaire blinks his eyes open slowly, grimacing at the harsh morning sunlight. Once his eyes have accustomed to the light enough that it isn't agonizing to open them fully, he sits up, brushing a hand through his tangled curls and wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant aftermath of spending the night on a couch, fully clothed.

Gavroche is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, a bowl of seven different cereals clutched tightly in his hands and a smile on his face that's far too cheerful for seven in the morning - but he must have heard some of Grantaire's sorrows last night, because he holds back on his usual morning ribbing. Grantaire isn't sure whether to be thankful or irritated; he's not  _ breakable  _ and a little teasing wouldn't hurt his feelings much, but he's still not sure how safe the topic of Enjolras is after the night before.

He's sure of one thing, though - he can't keep hiding from Enjolras anymore. At this point, all he can think to do is face him head on, accepting the repercussions, and then removing himself from Enjolras’ life forever. Though painful, it seems a far more forgiving option than hiding his face for the rest of his life, sitting in a dark bedroom and letting the object of his affections tear him apart piece by piece. He has to end this, he’s never been more sure of anything.

That’s why, when Eponine comes out of her room and double-takes at the sight of Grantaire up and functioning, he bites the inside of his cheek and voices his plan.

“It's done, Eponine,” he says. “The game is up. I’m going to his meeting. I’m going to talk to him.”

The look she gives him, half proud and half worried, is enough to cement the decision in his head. No matter what happens with Enjolras, no matter how much pride he loses by showing his face to the man he's obsessed over for weeks, he knows he’ll always have this to come back to. He’ll always have Eponine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm shocked that this has already gotten so popular, i wasn't expecting nearly this much attention on my first les mis fic - thank you so much to all of you wonderful readers that have left kudos and comments. they make an author's world go round! find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say about this chapter - i wanted it to be longer, but this seemed as good a place to stop as any and i'm already somewhat late uploading it (which i'm sorry for, by the way). the plot thickens!
> 
> enjoy!

It's Friday, which means there's a meeting at 7:30, and that gives Grantaire the better part of the day to mentally prepare himself for the inevitable shitstorm to come the second he steps foot into the Musain. Eponine heads to work not long after seeing Gavroche off to school; she offers to let Grantaire hang out in her apartment until she trades shifts with Enjolras later that afternoon, but he declines. He’s probably better off holing himself up in his bedroom and steadfastly ignoring Enjolras, or spending his morning at the Musain while he can still show his face there. He opts for the former but considers the latter, following Eponine out the door and down the stairs with a tired smile on his face.

They part ways once they reach the street, Eponine heading to work and Grantaire jogging the opposite direction towards his apartment. The walk is refreshing, even with the unpleasant sensation of overnight clothes settled uncomfortably against him skin, and he takes a second to shove his hands in his pockets and breathe in the morning air. It’s been a while since he’s been up and about this early, having more or less abandoned mornings at the Musain in favor of avoiding any and every place he could possibly run into Enjolras. Still, he kind of misses the morning calm, everyone of note either hurrying to work or school and the back streets between his apartment and Eponine’s blissfully empty.

His apartment complex comes into view when he turns the corner, large and looming, and Grantaire hopes beyond hope that his door didn't lock itself when he left last night. He may have lost most of his dignity, but he  _ really _ doesn't want to use Enjolras’ balcony to break into his own home after storming out the night before. That thought brings him back to the topic of Enjolras, and he takes exactly five seconds outside the lobby door to run his hands through his hair and freak out over the fact that  _ Enjolras is going to know who he is in less than 12 hours. _ He's okay, really, he’s making his peace with the idea, but the thought of possibly having to sleep five feet and a wall away from Enjolras once he knows is -- well, terrifying, to say the least.

Although, he could always take his couch. Or pull his bed out into the living room. Pathetic though it might be, he’s not above abandoning his own bedroom to avoid a bit more agony.

His apartment door is unlocked when he gets there, and he breathes a winded sigh of relief when he steps inside - and immediately lets out a rather unmanly shriek. Combeferre is sitting on his couch, a newspaper in front of his nose and a cup of coffee perched neatly on his knee, held in place by a steady hand. He looks up at Grantaire’s outburst, looking impressively unperturbed, and takes a slow sip of his coffee before lowering both the cup and paper to the table in front of him. Grantaire fumbles for something to say, still trying to piece together  _ Combeferre  _ and  _ Enjolras might be home _ and  _ why is he in my apartment _ in his head.

“You don’t live here,” he says weakly, as if Combeferre might possibly be unaware of that fact.

“Enjolras isn’t home,” is the reply, as Combeferre pushes up his glasses and stands up smoothly. He steps around the couch from the far side, rather than stepping out towards Grantaire. “He’s at the Musain.”

Grantaire blinks. “You don't live here,” he says again, because apparently he’s determined to prove himself the biggest idiot on the planet. Then, in an attempt to rectify the situation and  _ hopefully _ prove to Combeferre that he isn't as brainless as he probably appears, he continues, “I’m going to get dressed. I need a drink.”

“It’s barely eight in the morning.”

“I meant  _ water, _ genius. I just walked back from Eponine’s.”

The judgemental look drops from Combeferre’s face, replaced by an expression that looks like he’s just been slapped. “You spent the night at Eponine’s?”

Grantaire scoffs. “Not like  _ that,  _ man. She lends me her couch when I don't want to be here.” Combeferre looks significantly more at ease after that, and so Grantaire teases him a bit, just to make himself feel a bit better. “Good luck with that, though, man. You don't really strike me as her type. Too much tweed, not enough tattoos, yknow?”

“I have tattoos!” Combeferre splutters indignantly, and that was something Grantaire was  _ not  _ expecting. He raises an eyebrow, and Combeferre hastily pulls up one sleeve of his sweater to display swirling black ink covering most of his forearm.

Grantaire blinks again, partly convinced that this is all one big fever dream, and he’ll wake up on Eponine’s couch again if he closes his eyes for long enough. “Right,” he says, because what is he  _ supposed  _ to say when his crush’s best friend (and maybe his best friend’s crush, if she ever sees his arms) breaks into his apartment to show off his tattoos?

_ The apartment was unlocked, _ he reminds himself,  _ and you brought up the tattoos. _ Traitorous brain.

“Why are you here again?” he asks, because he never really got an answer to that in the first place.

“Came to invite you to the meeting, on Enjolras’ orders. He seems to think you don’t want to talk to him, for some reason.” The look on Combeferre’s face gives Grantaire the idea that he knows  _ exactly  _ why Enjolras doesn't want to do this himself. A wave of irritation rises in his chest, threatening to overtake his better sensibilities, and he drags a hand over his face with a groan.

He spins on his heel and marches resolutely towards his bedroom door. “I’m getting dressed, I’ll see you at the meeting tonight,” he throws over his shoulder. “Wear short sleeves if you want a chance with Eponine.”

The door shuts behind him before he can hear Combeferre's reply, or see if he actually left the apartment or not.

 

It’s busy when he arrives, even more so than the usual for a Friday afternoon, and Enjolras has to all but fight his way through the crowds to even reach the little ‘employees only’ door. It’s a bad day gone worse, the combination of not nearly enough sleep and worrying about Grantaire and getting  _ angry  _ that his neighbor had stormed out without so much as an explanation coupled with the hope that Combeferre had found Grantaire and asked him to come to the meeting and the possibility that Grantaire might  _ not _ come to the meeting - and he isn’t sure which outcome is worse at this point. His head is a mess, a cold shower had done nothing to clear it, and not even the smell of espresso and coffee grounds can’t pull him out of his thoughts long enough to pull his apron over his head. Eponine pokes her head in as his fingers struggle to tie the strings behind his back, looking beyond relieved that he’s shown up at last. He doesn’t blame her - the masses out on the floor had looked daunting at best; it’s a miracle she’s managed this long on her own. With a final tug to pull the apron’s knot tight, he makes one last attempt to banish all thoughts of Grantaire and the impending meeting before following Eponine outside and taking his place behind the register.

Enjolras  _ likes _ working at the Musain. He likes the midday lull, he likes the smell of the coffee, he likes the quiet conversation of the patrons at their tables - he even likes working with Eponine, abrasive as she might be. She’s not dating R, he had figured that much out the first time he worked up the guts to ask her about him - the only time, too; she had bitten out her reply so sharply that even he knew she didn’t want to talk about him. She’s protective, he thinks, but not nearly in a bad way. It’s more a motherly protectiveness, or sisterly, and Enjolras thinks he wouldn’t mind befriending her if they ever get the chance to meet outside their half-hour passing period between trading shifts.

Despite the joys of working at the Musain, though, today’s shift is particularly hellish. Enjolras races between the register, the bar, and the pastry display, filling to-go cups and calling names without so much as a beat to breathe between. Eponine is silent as she works, only ever speaking to relay an order to him or thank a customer as she hands over their coffee. There’s an upside, though - the lunch hour customer rush is almost enough to clear Enjolras’ head of all things related to R, although he still glances at the front door on principle whenever he hears the bell chime. There’s no sign of dark, messy curls, though, and he can’t help but be disappointed when Eponine sheds her apron and takes off with a wave, leaving Enjolras to cover the tail end of the lunch rush on his own.

He loses track of time as he works, the hours flying by in a haze of unrecognizable faces and paper cups and the Musain slowly emptying after lunch only to fill again with the usual after-work crowd, and he hardly even registers the time when Musichetta shows up that evening to take over the counter. He excuses himself to the back room, taking several minutes to sit with his back against the wall, feeling all the tension of the shift draining out of him with each breath. He isn’t sure how long he’s there, eyes closed and feeling more relaxed by the second; he can hear Musichetta greeting people fondly outside, whether customers or his friends showing up for the meeting - although they would know to go straight up to the second floor by now. He wonders, absently, whether or not Grantaire will show up, and if Musichetta would send him up to the second floor with the rest of them. When he finally manages to push open the door to the back room, pulling his apron over his head as he enters and pulling his phone out of his bag to check the time, it takes several seconds for him to register the bright LED  _ 7:38 _ glaring back at him - but when he does, he swears colorfully and snatches his bag off the floor, running upstairs and attempting to pull his notes out of the bag at the same time. Someone shuts the door up ahead just as he reaches the foot of the stairs, and the noise is audible from the staircase, he realizes - the group is already in full swing even if the meeting hasn’t started without him. 

He pushes open the door, and all his thoughts immediately vanish. The only thing he registers is  _ black hair green jacket laughing smiling he’s here _ , and Combeferre is standing up to tell him something but he hardly hears the words over the roaring tumult in his head. R turns slowly, opening his mouth as if he’s about to speak, and Enjolras couldn’t move his legs even if he wanted to, he’s stuck rooted to the spot at the sight of the absolute  _ vision _ in front of him - but the door opens again, someone enters the room behind him and claps a hand on his shoulder, and Bahorel’s booming voice tears through every single one of Enjolras’ thoughts and leaves them in a ragged pile of shreds.

_ “Grantaire?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so they meet.
> 
> kudos and comments are much appreciated, as always, and i'm on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry
> 
> expect the next chapter thursday at the latest, it's already mostly written, but i wanted to get this up and give you all a little time to digest it before moving on. enjoy!
> 
> p.s. this is mostly in grantaire's pov but i started it off with enjolras at the request of the wonderful Taxicab - your comments give me life!

Enjolras’ head is a blur, a sharp pain building in his temples as he whips around to look at Bahorel, then around at the rest of his friends, and finally at the single new face among them. R stares back at him with wide eyes, stormy blue and looking just as panicked as Enjolras feels. His mouth is slightly agape, the fingers of his right hand twitching slightly, a bandage around the last knuckle of his middle finger. There’s red rimming his fingernails, sunk into the dip between nail and skin, too bright to be blood -  _ he paints, _ Enjolras thinks.

His head is too loud and muddled to pick apart any singular thought past  _ Grantaire,  _ and with the name drowning out the quiet conversation in the room, he staggers two unsteady steps forward. Grantaire steps back as soon as Enjolras moves, knocking the back of his knees into Courfeyrac’s chair -  _ Courfeyrac knew, _ Enjolras thinks, among the countless other thoughts filling his head. Grantaire stumbles, the eye contact broken, and suddenly the weight of the world collapses onto Enjolras’ shoulders again. 

Combeferre is at his side, a hand on his shoulder, steering him gently towards the front of the room and away from Grantaire. “Did you know?” Enjolras asks him, hissing the words under his breath and shooting a glare in Courfeyrac's direction. Combeferre sighs, pulling the folder of notes out of Enjolras’ hands and setting it on the table at the front of the room.

“Yes,” Combeferre replies, “but we can talk about this later. You're late, get them to sit down.”

He doesn't feel anywhere near up to running a meeting today - he’s tired and stressed from his shift at work and lack of sleep after his fight with Grantaire -

Grantaire, who is currently standing across the room, staring at him with an intensity that makes Enjolras incredibly aware of his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. He braces himself with both hands pressed against the table, on either side of the folder Combeferre had left for him, and drops his gaze to the wood beneath his fingers. His nails are short, bitten down -  _ when had he done that?  _ \- and his skin is pale and dry. His palms are clammy, he can feel it without even having to move his hands, and when he finally reaches to open the folder and begin the meeting, the plastic cover sticks uncomfortably to his skin.

He clears his throat to call the group to order, and everyone but Grantaire takes their seats; Grantaire is left standing alone in the center of the room. His eyes meet Enjolras’ for a single breathless second, before Enjolras breaks the gaze to clear his throat again, and Grantaire takes a seat in the back corner of the room. Enjolras is only slightly relieved; he’s far enough out of the way that his presence isn't distracting, but still so much to the side that it's obvious when Enjolras’ eyes settle heavily on him. 

It’s cold in the room, bracingly so, and with a deep breath to steady his hands and his thoughts, and a glance in Combeferre's direction to reassure himself that he's not alone in this situation, he launches into his opening statement.

 

No amount of alcohol or fantasizing could have possibly prepared Grantaire for this. Enjolras is  _ radiant  _ when he speaks, passion and determination radiating from him in waves, washing over Grantaire so fervently he fears he might drown in the sheer weight if the words filling the room. He’s enraptured, captured in the brilliant blue of Enjolras’ eyes and the vibrant tenor of his voice as he talks about -  _ god,  _ Grantaire doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, but he knows he needs a drink or he’s going to do something stupid, like try to draw Enjolras in plain view of a room full of his friends. His fingers are itching for a cigarette or a pencil, for  _ something _ to do with his hands other than simply clenching and unclenching them in his lap. The table in front of him is made of dark wood, a single candle in a glass jar burning atop it, and a few stray scratches in the worn varnish. He traces the length of one with a fingernail, fixing his gaze determinedly on the wood in an attempt to force thoughts of Enjolras from his mind - he had known Enjolras’ beauty before, he had known the power and passion in his words, but the combination of the two is less of an addition of sensations and more a multiplication of them; an incredible, unstoppable force that Grantaire has no doubt could move mountains, tear down empires and build up nations in their wake if Enjolras were to just put his mind to it.

Before him, Enjolras falls silent, and Grantaire turns his eyes back to the head of the room to see him gazing out at the group expectantly, waiting for something that Grantaire has no idea how to give. In the corner of his eye, he sees someone -  _ Marius,  _ his brain supplies helpfully, a thin man with a deer-in-the-headlights expression settled perpetually across his young features - raise his hand shakily. Enjolras nods at him, and Grantaire wonders fleetingly if he can find anything to say that would make Enjolras turn that beautiful, terrible gaze on him instead.

“We should raise funds,” Marius says, and Grantaire scrambles to remember just what Enjolras had been talking about - he can't drag up anything past a smooth voice between red lips and white teeth.

“Noted,” says Combeferre from the front of the room, and Grantaire sees Enjolras nod thoughtfully at the suggestion. He nods along, because everyone else is, save for Marius himself, who is looking incredibly proud of himself - if still noticeably nervous.

“A rally!” Courfeyrac chimes in, at Marius’ side. “Ask for donations, get speakers together -”

“And hold it where? We were run off campus,” Enjolras cuts in. “We need to think bigger than a university, we don't have the luxury of government funding anymore.”

Someone scoffs - Bahorel - and slams his glass down onto the table. “We don’t  _ need _ funding, Enj, it doesn't cost anything to muscle a few guys into surrender.”

“We're not fighting,” Combeferre says sharply. Grantaire is still confused about the topic of the conversation; the rally and university comments give him the idea that it has something to do with the local university, but Bahorel’s comment makes it seems like something more severe - although, he reminds himself, that could just be Bahorel’s nature shining through - 

And then the world grinds to a halt again, because Enjolras is looking at him,  _ directly _ at him, and Grantaire withers under the ferocity of his striking blue stare. “What do you think?” he asks, still fixing his eyes on Grantaire, and  _ god, he needs a drink to get through this. _ He stalls for time, grasping for a nonexistent answer among the tangled strands of understanding in his head.

“...Pamphlets?” he tries, his voice embarrassingly weak in comparison to Enjolras’. The room is silent, six pairs of eyes turned on him, and Grantaire sweeps his eyes over each of them in turn - Bahorel, Marius, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Combeferre - before finally settling back on Enjolras and his golden glow.

“Pamphlets,” Enjolras echoes, looking inexplicably thoughtful. “You mean like canvassing? Handing out flyers? Standing by store fronts?”

Grantaire feels impossibly small, wishing he could melt into the chair beneath him, regretting his hasty response more with every passing second. “I -- yes?”

“That could work,” Enjolras finally says after several torturous moments of silence.

“Noted,” continues Combeferre, and Grantaire lets out a sigh of relief and sinks back into his chair. He pats his pockets, searching for his pack of cigarettes - but they were left at Eponine’s the night before, he realizes. He doesn’t think Enjolras would appreciate that much, either, he’s ridiculously upright and angelic and Grantaire is struck with an overpowering need to  _ prove _ himself, to be everything that Enjolras thinks he has  _ the potential _ to be.

 

The other shoe drops ten minutes later, when Grantaire finally pieces together what Enjolras is talking about and can't hold back his derisive snort in time. Enjolras’ head snaps up, along with the other five pairs of eyes in the room, and fixes on him with a stony glare.

“Something funny, Grantaire?”

_ Don’t say anything, _ he tells himself, and kicks himself as soon as he opens his mouth.

“You really think you can fix education? You're joking, right?”  _ Shut up, Grantaire,  _ he tells himself, but something irrational in him keeps talking. “Fucked up education is  _ built into  _ the system, you can't just chase it away with rallies and fucking  _ pamphlets. _ ”

Enjolras’ eyes narrow, and that should really be where he stops, but it isn't. “You suggested pamphlets, are you going back on that?”

“I didn't know  _ what _ I was suggesting, Enjolras. I told you before, I don't think you can just get up and change things like that.” He leans forward in his seat, braces himself against the table and stands up. “You're not superheroes, you're just a bunch of students. You can't change anything like this, people  _ don't change. _ ”

“They do, if you show them how to!”

“How often does that line work?”

Enjolras moves forward, and Grantaire meets him step for step. Enjolras’ eyes are fiery, angry and blazing and Grantaire is  _ so stupid _ but he can’t keep himself from provoking Enjolras because he’s  _ beautiful _ like this. He’s an avenging angel, a wrathful god come to Earth singing praises of a humanity that doesn't deserve it and all Grantaire wants is to keep that burning gaze to himself for just a moment more.

“You don't believe in this, do you?” Enjolras asks, biting out the words. He spits them like seeds, like curses flung at Grantaire with the ferocity of knives.

“I don’t believe in anything, you should know that,” Grantaire replies, and leaves before he can make things any worse.

 

Things get worse. The next month passes in a blur of sleepless nights spent in his living room - Grantaire had pulled his mattress out of his bedroom and into his living room right after the first disastrous meeting, but no number of walls between him and Enjolras could help him shake the inevitable, suffocating presence that sleeps mere feet away. He’s only become more enamoured with Enjolras since that meeting; nothing he tells himself can keep him away from the Musain on nights when Les Amis are gathered. He lives for the sound of Enjolras’ voice, the rich tenor tearing apart arguments and beliefs alike, Enjolras’ words the only thing Grantaire knows.

He doesn’t look at Enjolras during meetings, the combination of beauty and revolutionary fervour just as overwhelming as it was the first time Grantaire was faced with it. Instead, he drinks - much to Enjolras’ chagrin - and sketches. His books are filled with pencil drawings of the group that had so quickly accepted him, as well as Eponine, Jehan, Joly, and Bossuet when they had shown up as Grantaire’s moral support. On Friday of the second week, his sketchbook is stuffed so full of loose papers that he begins tearing his sketches out, pinning them up on his living room wall around his bed, self-made company but poor substitution for the voice that used to fill his nights. Still, he tacks them up, creating a veritable gallery wall of his friends, peppered with the few self-indulgent sketches of Enjolras he allows himself on particularly drunken nights.

He tears the sketches of Enjolras down after another week, shoving them unceremoniously under his mattress and steadfastly ignoring the gaping blank spaces on his wall. The stark, empty feeling he’s left with is preferable to the searing stabs of pain in his chest whenever he had looked at Enjolras rendered on paper.

After a month, he’s in another meeting, head bent over the beginnings of a drawing of Courfeyrac and Jehan as Enjolras sings the praises of martyring himself in the upcoming rally-inevitably-turned-riot they’re planning with a fire in his voice born of too many arguments and too few helpful suggestions by Grantaire. The rally isn’t legal, it’s not organized, it’s hardly safe - but at this point, Grantaire doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, he scoffs, because saying  _ you're being ridiculous  _ is easier than saying  _ it won't work but I’d offer myself up as a  gilded sacrifice to give you a chance _ , and the sound traps itself behind his tongue like a stone. Enjolras fixes him with a glare that pins him to his chair, turning his knuckles white against his knees and sending the hair on his arms on end.

“Do you have something against it,  _ Grantaire _ ?” Enjolras spits his name like a curse, like a piece of bad fruit on his tongue. Grantaire is proud of the way he keeps himself from flinching, instead taking a sharp but imperceptible breath through his nose.

“I just don’t think-” he starts, but Enjolras cuts him off.

“Didn’t think,” he hisses. “Of course you didn’t, all you ever think about is your damn  _ drink _ , isn't it?” The jab stings Grantaire, a verbal slap to the face. It’s not like he’s  _ wrong _ \- Grantaire knows that perfectly well - but he hadn’t even said anything this time, he’d been good and quiet and kept his head down instead of starting a fight, and hearing the words is like seeing their carefully constructed truce fall to pieces underneath his lips. “Why are you even here, Grantaire? Is it to mock me? To argue with me? It’s clear you don’t believe in our causes, you  _ said _ you don’t, so why do you insist on coming here every night just to make a pathetic ass out of yourself?” He punctuates the last retort with a sweep of his arm, sending Grantaire’s gaze to fall on each of his friends one by one. They stay silent, each staring either at Enjolras with nervous gazes or at Grantaire with pity in their eyes. “You believe in  _ nothing,  _ nothing but your alcohol and your cynicism and your fucking  _ problems. _ You’re worth  _ nothing _ to us.”

Grantaire feels like he’s suffocating, clenching and unclenching his fingers in his lap once he loses the strength to clutch his knees, eyes fixed on Enjolras’ face but focused to look  _ through  _ him at the wall beyond because he'd be damned if he conceded but really  _ looking  _ at Enjolras is like staring down the sun point-blank.  _ Apollo, truly,  _ he thinks bitterly. And then Enjolras is speaking again, words falling on unfocused ears, berating Grantaire and ripping his skin from his tensed muscles with the pure and utter  _ hatred _ in his voice -

And Grantaire finally hears what Enjolras is saying.

Enjolras finishes, standing just over a foot away from Grantaire’s table, chest rising and falling heavily with the exertion of even acknowledging Grantaire for this long, because they both know the mere act exhausts him.

Grantaire smiles, a bitter and strained smile, and gathers his pens and sketchbook from the chair beside him. He pushes past Enjolras, daring to brush his shoulder and feel the burning heat of his skin through layers of clothing, muttering a quiet response as he passes.

“I believe in you.”

He pauses to open the door with one hand and Enjolras lets out a derisive laugh. As Grantaire descends the stairs, lets the wood swing shut behind him, he hears a scathing voice retort.

“Pity I can’t say the same.”

Grantaire throws the sketchbook and pens into the compartment underneath the seat of his bike, jams the keys into the ignition with shaking fingers, and speeds away from the Musain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so everything goes to shit
> 
> kudos and comments are appreciated, but i understand if you're mad at me after this. things get happy, i promise. find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short-ish chapter this time, but it's my favorite!! this is the first scene i ever wrote for this fic, its the birthplace of the past 25K words.
> 
> enjoy!

For seven hellishly long seconds, the Musain is deathly silent. Enjolras stands at the vacated table, breathing heavily, the beginnings of a headache beginning to beat at his temples. He can hear the way the others remain silent, refusing to breathe (or perhaps forgetting to) in the wake of his outburst.

Then he registers a flurry of orange movement in the corner of his eye, and bony fingers dig painfully into the flesh of his arm. He turns to face Jehan, who drops his vice-tight grip on Enjolras.

Jehan then draws himself up, pulls his arm back, and slaps Enjolras square across the cheek.

The Musain is all activity then, every remaining person standing up all at once and talking over each other. Some are pointedly confused - Feuilly, Bahorel - while others have stony faces identical to Jehan’s and rage blazing in their eyes. Enjolras’ cheek still stings, he gets the idea that he’s done something horrendously out of line but the headache is still threatening to surface and the anger boiling inside him hasn’t completely subsided. He settles for looking wildly between Jehan and the door, and if he cranes his neck enough to bring the front door of the Musain into view, he can just barely make out an empty stretch of curb formerly occupied by Grantaire’s motorbike.

Jehan fixes Joly and Bossuet with a look, then, finally turning his rage away from Enjolras. The other two look just as agitated, though, and are glaring at him accusingly.

“Help me  _ fix this _ ,” Jehan grits out to the pair of them, before turning on his heel and leaving the Musain.

Enjolras is nearly lifted off his feet, Joly and Bossuet each grabbing one of his arms rather forcefully and bodily dragging him out to the hallway of the second floor. The rushing anger is ebbing away pathetically, only to be replaced with worry, the realization of what he had said to Grantaire and the aching, gnawing fear that he had done something to drive him away for good; and somewhere in the back of his head his mind thinks it would be  _ hilarious  _ to drag up the memory of a dark room and hearing Grantaire groan brokenly through an apartment wall and  _ no, he is not going there _ .

_ Trust you to fuck up a good thing, Enjolras,  _ he thinks bitterly.  _ Trust you to ruin everything you've built. _

He’s dumped unceremoniously onto a stray chair, Joly and Bossuet standing intimidatingly over him with identical, furious expressions. He’s never felt so small.

“Grantaire’s sober tonight,” says Joly without preamble, and Enjolras feels his stomach drop through the floor.

“And hasn’t slept in nearly three days, as far as I know. Which is why he looks dead on his feet, thanks,” adds Bossuet, and Enjolras could cut his own tongue out.

“I don’t think I need to tell you this,  _ Enjolras _ ,” Joly continues, and he spits Enjolras’ name in the same tone Enjolras had spat Grantaire’s, and  _ yes, he had fucked up, and deserved every bit of that.  _ Joly shoves his clenched fists into his pockets and breathes deeply, as if he is trying very hard to keep from hitting something. “I don't think I need to tell you this,” he repeats slowly, “but whoever’s fault it is most of the time, tonight it’s yours.”

Enjolras sucks in a harsh breath through his gritted teeth.

“And everyone in there will agree with me,” finishes Joly, gesturing towards the closed door that Grantaire had left through only moments before - it feels like hours.

Enjolras lets the breath out slowly, feeling the burn of air against chapped lips.

“I don’t know why the fuck you're still sitting there,” snaps Bossuet.

 

He runs.

 

Enjolras climbs the stairs two at a time, phone still buzzing in his pockets with texts from a furious Jehan. He nearly misses the door, skidding on his heels and whipping back around with a force that sends his head reeling. He has no time to dwell on the pounding of hot blood in his ears, though, as he raises a fist to hammer on the wood.

At the first touch it swings inward, hinges creaking in an ear-splitting tone. He steps in and makes to seize Grantaire from behind the door, to punch him square across the jaw or kick him in the stomach for worrying Enjolras and the others, or  _ hug him _ for being okay and alive - but the apartment is empty. The door had been left open and is now swinging back, slowly and loudly, with the force of having rebounded off the wall. 

“Grantaire?” he calls, voice hoarse from overuse at the Musain, but he doesn’t expect or receive an answer. His phone rings in his pocket, blaring out loud enough to drown the rushing in his ears and the throbbing headache that was threatening to set in. He doesn’t recognize the number but picks it up all the same, hoping - no,  _ praying _ \- that Grantaire is on the other line and that he has  _ some  _ sort of explanation-

“Hello?” His voice is cracked and panicked, he can hear it even through the soft static of the rough connection.

Eponine’s voice, although not nearly as worn as his, is pinched and terse.

“His bike’s gone from the Musain and everyone’s saying things at the same time, Enjolras,  _ tell  _ me you didn’t-” Her voice is drowned out momentarily by the babble in the background, most likely the boys at the Musain trying to explain or ask just what had happened.

_ Not Grantaire _ .

“I don’t know, ‘Ponine, he stormed out and I went to his apartment but he’s not here and it looks like he has been but he clearly didn’t stay long-”

Eponine swears loudly and colorfully and her voice, this time, is clear as it comes through the phone, a low and feral growl that sends a shock of fear up Enjolras’ spine. “You stay right the  _ fuck _ where you are, Enjolras, I’ll have one of the others come and collect you and then you go somewhere that isn’t your fucking apartment and stay the  _ hell  _ out of my way, you got me?” Before Enjolras can ask if she knows where Grantaire is, if he’s okay, she continues. “If so much as a  _ single baby curl _ on his head is out of place, I will find you and I will  _ skin you alive  _ and have Gavroche feed the bits to his pet turtle while you watch.”

The line clicks dead, and Enjolras collapses to his knees in the doorway of Grantaire’s dingy apartment.

His phone buzzes again, once, probably Courfeyrac or Combeferre telling him they’re on their way. He pays no mind, it took twenty minutes for him to sprint from the Musain back home, and no one else ever brings their cars to meeting nights. He has half an hour, maybe more, before someone comes for him and he isn’t about to leave and cross Eponine when she sounded as tense as she had. He looks up from the floor, eyes darting to the open door and the empty hallway before he turns his head to look at the rest of the apartment.

There isn’t much to see. It’s identical to his own, if mirrored, and he has the odd feeling of being stuck in an alternate universe where everything is the same only  _ slightly _ wrong. Large industrial windows stand along the back wall, covered in patched and tattered half-drawn curtains. Bottles and tubes of paints are scattered across the floor, every other available surface taken up by newspapers and blank canvases and cups full of both clean and dirty paintbrushes. In one corner sits a mattress, covered by a heap of mismatched blankets and with a dingy looking lamp propped up beside it - Enjolras wonders if this is why he never hears Grantaire anymore. The walls beside the mattress are covered in tacked-up sketches, grey and white blurs from where Enjolras is sitting, but covering enough space that he would probably barely reach the top of them if he tried to touch it, and spanning several feet on either wall bordering the bed-nest-pile that he assumes Grantaire sleeps in. Tearing his gaze away from the scraps of sketches, he looks the other direction, into Grantaire’s kitchen. It’s small, barely enough to fit a person and a half, and on the counter are what look like leftovers in a plastic bag, with a sticky note half-attached to the side. Most likely from Jehan or Eponine, he thinks, probably the former.

He stands up before he realizes what he’s doing, his legs protesting stiffly beneath him and the noise in his head ratcheting up to a thunderous roar. He hobbles over to Grantaire’s sink on unsteady legs, flicking on the cold water and dunking as much of his head as he can into the basin. The pounding grows stronger, protesting the cold, before fading away ever so slightly. When he raises his head, he sees it.

There is a door in the corner, well hidden, covered by the same tacked-up sketches as the wall surrounding it. He wouldn’t have seen it if not for the shine of the knob, although the same door sits mirrored in his own apartment; the door is very nearly the same color as the off-white walls and barely visible between the dozens of sketches. He checks the clock on Grantaire’s wall, then his phone. Twenty-three minutes since Eponine had called, probably a solid twenty since she had sent someone after him. He runs a hand over his dripping face, willing his legs to give out beneath him so he can resist the temptation of having this one small look into Grantaire’s life, this one curiosity he alone has been denied from the second he ran into Grantaire at the Musain.

His legs, the traitorous bastards, refuse.

He approaches the door with a caution akin to approaching a sleeping tiger, as if the door itself might suddenly grow teeth and swallow him whole. The sketches come into focus with each step - Eponine, sitting on a park bench weaving flowers into Gavroche’s hair; Courfeyrac, laughing around the mouth of a bottle of beer; Jehan and Feuilly, on a tandem bike; Bahorel in a boxing ring; Combeferre with his glasses perched in untidy morning hair; Marius and Cosette sharing a bowl of popcorn at a theater; Joly and Bossuet tangled together at Musichetta’s feet. He notices that he’s the only member of their friends to not have a place on the wall or door, although there are a few patches of bare space where drawings might once have been - but he can’t blame Grantaire for not wanting him there, not after tonight. Not after - well, everything Enjolras had ever done to him, really.

With shaking fingers, he reaches for the knob, every fiber in his body screaming at him to  _ leave it, go, run as far away as possible and leave yourself out of his life  _ \- but he grabs it all the same, and with a sharp turn and push that takes every ounce of courage in his rapidly self-destructing body, he enters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grantaire's bed isn't in his room - what is?
> 
> kudos and comments are much appreciated, your feedback makes my writing worthwhile. find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! i had a lot planned for this chapter and then realized that at halfway it was already over my word count goal so i split it up - im excited for what's coming up though! i hope these next few chapters make up for the last two :(
> 
> enjoy!

Grantaire is ten minutes past Eponine’s when the city buildings begin to thin out and give way to quiet landscape, scattered houses amid a swath of winter-bare trees just growing back the first hint of spring leaves. He slows to a halt over a stretch of street and kicks out the stand, sitting on the curb and letting the tension in his shoulders drain as he pulls the keys from the ignition and pockets them. Enjolras’ words ring in his ears and mock him with the echo of his own voice -  _ I can’t say the same, _ it taunts,  _ you're worth nothing. _ The words spin in his head, behind his eyes and in his ears like a broken record, stuck on a loop of Enjolras’ hateful accusations in Grantaire's own self-deprecating voice. His head is less of a tumultuous waterfall and more of the steady drip of a faucet, maddeningly rhythmic and unstoppable, but no more than a constant buzz in the back of his head. It sits in his stomach like an empty void, it carves a hole into his chest and makes a home between his ribs.

He’s struck with the urge to destroy, to rip apart and burn every picture of Enjolras he’s ever created - in doing so, maybe he can burn Enjolras out of his heart as well, allow himself to let go of the infatuation that is so persistent even in the face of outright scorn. Enjolras could care less about him, is disgusted by his lack of ideals, thinks him useless and worthless; but Grantaire still sees him as the sun, as the Apollo immortalized on that first canvas months before.

He had looked so  _ beautiful, _ filled with his righteous fury, throwing Grantaire from the Musain with the stance of a god - but Grantaire is left with a pit in his stomach at the thought of those blazing eyes, those full lips spitting his name like poison.

Grantaire pulls his sketchbook from its resting place and flips it open, balancing it on his knee as he flips it open and brushes past sketches of the rest of his friends to find those of blue eyes and golden curls, smiling and laughing and speaking with the fervor of old-world revolution. With a bitter laugh, he begins to rip page after page from it, drawings of Enjolras torn clean through and stuffed into his pockets with as much grace as Enjolras himself had allowed Grantaire; that is to say, none. When the sketchbook is half-empty, left ragged at the edges and Grantaire's pockets are straining with crumpled sketches, he shoves the book back into the compartment beneath his seat and sits down heavily on his bike.

He’s drained, defeated after the fight at the Musain, all semblance of anger gone from him with the ripped scraps of drawings. He doesn't know how to face Enjolras, and in the back of his head there's a vicious battle of wills between  _ I can never see Enjolras again  _ and  _ I have to see him one last time. _ It's a stalemate - his sense of self-preservation barely holding out against his attraction to-

_ No,  _ he thinks,  _ call it what it is. _

His love, that’s what it is. His love for Enjolras.

The admission, even only in his head, makes his head spin and his stomach clench up like he’s been punched in the gut. This is more than a fleeting attraction, this is more than a set of drawings and paintings born out of an irrational obsession, this is more than a friend he spends his nights in conversation with. This is bright and blinding and painful, the knowledge that Enjolras is marching towards a slow and painful downfall, and instead of turning tail and running like he would have done with anyone else, Grantaire would rather march by his side than exist in a world in which he has no Enjolras to follow. 

He’s in love with Enjolras, and he’s realized it too late.

His phone rings, loud and shrill, and he digs through the papers in his pocket to find it. Eponine’s name glows back at him from the dim screen; he sends the call to voicemail and texts her instead.

_ going home, _ he writes,  _ don’t come see me. don’t let any of them come. _

She calls again thirty seconds later, and he sends her to voicemail again, then his phone is silent. He jams his keys back into the ignition and speeds back down the street towards his apartment.

 

Enjolras is gazing into a mirror.

Not a mirror, no - a canvas, his own face staring back at him with the aura of an angel, himself but not himself. The painting sits on an easel, hidden half into the corner with a blanket draped over one corner, obscuring the left half of his face - the painting’s face. The red of the background matches the red sunk into the beds of Grantaire's fingernails; the love in the painting is blatant, shining brightly in a way that sends Enjolras’ thoughts weeks back, to late nights spent in quiet conversation. Had Grantaire been painting this? How long had he known? Had he known at all, before setting foot in the Musain one month before?

Enjolras feels like he might be sick, and he tears his eyes away with considerable effort, scanning the room instead. The empty bed frame is shoved up against the shared wall, mirroring his own almost perfectly; and if he takes a few steps he can press his hand against the wall, in the same place Grantaire had, filling the ghost of a larger handprint weeks later. He doesn't move; he stays rooted in the doorway.

Everything seems to click into place as he stares at the blank wall, the puzzle pieces he had been attempting to fit together for weeks finally snapping together and forming the image of his face lovingly rendered on canvas. He feels in danger of sinking to his knees again, of collapsing and being found by whoever Eponine had sent after him, lying on Grantaire’s cluttered floor.

Footsteps on the staircase, the door opening; Enjolras prepares himself for the sound of Combeferre’s quiet disappointment, of Courfeyrac’s disdain.

“Oh,  _ shit,” _ he hears instead, and whips around so forcefully he feels a sharp strain in his neck. Grantaire stares back at him and through into the open bedroom, at the canvas sitting exposed in the corner.

“How long did you know?” he asks. His own voice sounds distant and hollow, an alien sound filtering through the room in a way that’s foreign to his ears. In front of him, Grantaire looks shocked, shot through the chest and frozen in the open doorway, a perfect parallel of how Enjolras himself feels.

“Since I met Courfeyrac,” comes the response, withered and flat. Enjolras has the sudden impression of the paralysis of the situation, the weak tone of their voices, the defeat in the air. Grantaire has drained him completely, faced him with a vitality and a hopelessness that's uprooted every one of Enjolras’ ideals and replaced it with a whirling tumult in his chest and in his head - there’s no return from this state, he realizes, Grantaire has changed his very nature. Enjolras knows Grantaire, is disappointed in and tired of him, but behind the cynicism and alcohol he’s seen the  _ real _ Grantaire, talked to him through a thin wall in the early hours of the morning; and in doing so, Grantaire has made it impossible for Enjolras to exist without him, he has torn down and built up Enjolras anew at the same time.

Still, when he counters Grantaire’s words, his voice is hollow. “And the painting?”

“The day we met.”

Something flares bright and hot within Enjolras, singeing the fabric of his shirt and seeping through his skin. He nods, at a complete loss for words. Grantaire's expression is open, transparent and plain on his face - he looks defeated. Broken.

_ I did that, _ Enjolras thinks.

Grantaire moves forward, and Enjolras finally tears his eyes away from Grantaire’s face to notice the battered book in his hands. Grantaire turns the book over, running calloused hands over the cover before setting it on the kitchen counter. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and Enjolras stares as he removes them again, fingers curled pale-white around crumpled scraps of paper. He holds them out, fills the negative space between them so blatantly that Enjolras’ heart hammers wildly against his ribs as he reaches out to take them - his fingers brush Grantaire's for an infinite second, a fire kindling in the single connection, and then it is gone. He unfolds the first paper he can catch between his shaking fingers.

His own face stares back at him, captured from the back corner of the second floor of the Musain. He unfolds another, a half-finished sketch of his face in profile. The next is him atop a chair, one hand outstretched to the sky and his mouth half-open in speech.

The rest of the scraps are much the same, an armful of drawings of Enjolras himself, and with each one he unfolds his stomach twists painfully. He's understanding, slowly but clearly, exactly why his words had affected Grantaire so much. When he smooths out the last paper, he looks up from the sketch of his face to look at Grantaire’s, the broken look in the other man’s eyes deepening the pit in his stomach.

“Did the rest of them know?” he asks, hoping Grantaire understands what he's asking; hoping he really does finally understand.

“I’m not subtle,” Grantaire replies, with a shrug. “Surprised you didn't.”

Enjolras’ head is spinning again. “But you were always so- You always-”

The laugh that fills the room is bitter, a harsh bark that nearly makes Enjolras flinch. “You fought with me as much as I fought with you. It’s not my fault you're so pretty when you're angry.”

Enjolras’ cheeks flush hot and red. He opens his mouth to reply, scrambling for a response to being called  _ pretty,  _ of all things, but Grantaire seems to have found his courage, or at least a way to make his voice fill the room more than it had before.

“Why are you here, Enjolras? I mean, I caught Combeferre on my way in so I’m pretty sure you're not supposed to be, but - why are you here?”

The question brings him up short. Grantaire sounds angry, his words vicious and biting, but when Enjolras glances at his face he only looks confused. His brow is furrowed and his lips are pursed, his head cocked slightly to the side like Enjolras is a puzzle he can't figure out. This is something Enjolras isn’t prepared for, something he has no idea how to handle. He’s dealt with angry Grantaire, he’s dealt with sad Grantaire and drunk Grantaire and excited Grantaire, but he has no idea what to do with this defeated, hopeless man in front of him. Grantaire can't  _ possibly _ not know, can he? He can't  _ really  _ think Enjolras hates him, Enjolras has never hated Grantaire. Even through the arguments and the cold silence at night, Enjolras has never felt anything less than fond for the man - hell, he was half in love with Grantaire before they ever properly met.

“I came to apologize,” he chokes out eventually, “and to make sure you were alright.”

Grantaire's eyes widen imperceptibly, before his face smooths over into a calculated facade of calm. “Apology accepted. And I’m fine.”

Enjolras knows he’s lying, but he doesn't want to push Grantaire any more than he already has. He turns to look out the window, at the night sky - it must be getting late, he thinks, he’s been here longer than he realized. He has a thought, a single fleeting idea that the roaring tumult in his head latches onto and refuses to let go of. Summoning his courage, he neatly folds the papers in his hand and puts them in his pocket, and jerks his head towards the window and the fire escape beyond the glass.

“Come with me?” he asks, and - whether out of curiosity or defeat - Grantaire follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my boys are finally starting to communicate im so proud ;;
> 
> kudos and comments make the world go round! find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please accept this chapter as my sincere apology for everything that's come before in this fic. i cried several times while writing it and may or may not have worried my cat ([musichetta](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com/tagged/meowsichetta)!) with all the frustrated noises i was making trying to get the scene just right.
> 
> a little side note - i've scattered a few song references (usually lyrics) around past chapters, most of them changed up enough to be unrecognizable, but this entire chapter is based off [birthdays](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ok-FfhZ6MvA) by the smith street band, with lyric references to hamilton and a couple les mis song titles thrown in for good measure - if you find them you get a cookie (or at least the sentiment behind getting a cookie)
> 
> enjoy!

“Where are we going?” Grantaire asks, as Enjolras dangles halfway out of his living room window. He’s somewhat confused - no, he's  _ extremely  _ confused - it feels like he’s stepped into some kind of alternate reality where Enjolras apologizes, and discovers his art without storming out in disgust, and inexplicably seems to  _ care _ about him. Enjolras hops out of the window rather gracelessly, landing with a thud on the metal fire escape, and Grantaire dubiously tests his weight on the flimsy windowsill before following suit.

“Courfeyrac found it when I first moved in,” Enjolras replies, pulling his jacket tighter around his frame to shield himself from the biting chill of the night air. Grantaire feels the cold sharply, shivering and jamming his hands back into his pockets. Ahead of him, Enjolras begins to climb the stairs of the fire escape, the metal rattling noisily and the structure swaying under their combined weight. They're high up already, their apartments are on the fourth floor of the complex, but as they pass curtained window after curtained window (and one room where the curtains can't quite keep out the sound from the room inside) the city below them begins to shrink to the size of a dollhouse, the passerby on the streets no larger than a fingernail.

“This stops at the top floor, you know that, right?” he asks, somewhat dubiously. “I’m not breaking into anyone’s apartment with you.”

Enjolras is two steps ahead of him, the few inches of natural height difference exaggerated by the steep steps, and Grantaire is left facing directly into the small of Enjolras’ back. He’s hardly distracted by the way Enjolras’ jacket rides up over his hips, though, a hint of soft skin beneath the fabric - no, he’s too nervous to focus much on that. Enjolras could be planning anything - he hasn't quite ruled out the possibility of murder, although Enjolras seems more stoutly determined than vengeful; determined to do  _ what,  _ though, Grantaire has no clue. Maybe he’s planning to continue their argument from earlier, or confront Grantaire about the art once he’s not surrounded by it anymore. Instead of pressing for an answer, though, he takes Enjolras’ silence as the end of the conversation and keeps climbing, staring dutifully at his feet on the metal staircase instead of ahead at Enjolras.

He collides with Enjolras when the other man stops short, his knees knocking into the backs of Enjolras’ calves. A quick look over the edge of the railing tells him they're on the top floor, the city spread out like a map beneath him, streetlamps and stop lights illuminating the twisting roads. Enjolras turns, then, cocking his head and looking down at Grantaire like he’s a puzzle Enjolras can’t quite figure out.

“There’s a ladder,” Enjolras says, “up to the roof. If you want to, that is.” As soon as the words leave his lips he looks away from Grantaire, leaving Grantaire blinking up at his red hair tie and the cascade of curls falling from it.

“Okay,” he replies weakly.

“What?”

“I’ll go. Let’s go.” Before he can change his mind, he brushes past Enjolras and grabs the ladder in one clammy hand.

They climb in silence, the few feet between the fire escape and the lip of the roof filled with a tangible tension that Grantaire doesn’t understand. He can’t quite put his finger on what, but Enjolras seems to be steeling himself for something, only half present amid his own thoughts. Grantaire can sympathize with that, at least, he’s spent the entire trip up to the roof preparing himself for every possible outcome.

He catches his palm on the jagged brick lip as he hoists himself up from the ladder. It’s not particularly spectacular - just a flat run of concrete dotted sparsely with fans and generators and other huge metal boxes - but along one side of the roof an ashtray and a few burnt cigarette butts sit perched on the edge. As Enjolras climbs up behind him, he makes his way over, gazing out at the breathtaking view below him. The city is sprawled out like a photograph from a plane, the stars dotting the dark sky more prominent here above the haze of light pollution. In the distance, red and white lights line the length of the freeway, and pedestrians stumble aimlessly around the sidewalks. A couple, holding hands and wearing identical fluorescent shirts, jaywalks three streets away. If he squints, he can nearly make out the dim lights of the Musain among the dark, unlit buildings lining the grid. Dropping his eyes back to the ashtray in front of him, he attempts once more to figure out just why Enjolras has brought him here.

“Don’t tell me these are yours, A-” he begins to joke, but the chuckle dies in his throat the second he turns around. Enjolras is far closer than Grantaire had thought, and apparently, he hadn’t expected Grantaire to turn around either, because his eyes widen, blue irises nearly overtaken by black pupils, and his lips fall ever so slightly apart. The expression on his face is overwhelming, a terrible sort of beauty that captivates Grantaire with a tug in his chest and a twist in his stomach. Enjolras looks open, vulnerable, all the emotion in the world written in sprawling ink across his angelic features - if only Grantaire could pick it apart and understand what that emotion  _ is. _

He clears his throat. “Don’t tell me these are yours, Apollo,” he repeats in a hoarse whisper, blue eyes fixed on blue eyes. He can’t bring himself to look away or even  _ blink _ \- Enjolras is ethereal.

“I don’t smoke,” is Enjolras’ reply, whispered in the same way. It feels as though Grantaire’s entire world has shrunk to the size of the rooftop; nothing exists but Enjolras and the minute shared space between them. Enjolras takes a step forward, a single movement towards Grantaire that reduces that shared space to a matter of inches. Grantaire’s breath catches and sticks in his throat. “Why do you call me that?” Enjolras continues, blinking slowly - the tension is broken.

Grantaire tears his eyes away from Enjolras’ face and turns back around, stumbling towards the lip of the roof and lowering himself down to sit cross-legged behind the ashtray. After a couple seconds, Enjolras joins him, staring out at the skyline and the tops of buildings blending into the pitch-black night.

“You are,” Grantaire replies, fixing his eyes steadfastly on the sky, not letting himself turn the slightest bit to bring Enjolras into his peripheral view.

“Am I?”

“You are to me.”

Grantaire feels a warm weight on his leg, then, and he blinks, dropping his gaze from the stars to look down. Enjolras’ arm is draped across his knee, thin fingers dragging lazily through the ashtray. As Grantaire watches, he brushes them clean, only to drag them through the ashes again. The contact is searing, even through the layer of fabric, and it takes Grantaire far too long to realize that he isn’t breathing.

“I don’t understand you,” Enjolras says finally, soft tenor cutting through the thick silence of the night. “I thought you hated me.”

Grantaire laughs, somewhat tensely. “I never hated you,” he says, “I liked you from the start. From the first day you ran into me.”

“And now?”

Grantaire has to stop himself before he blurts out something stupid like  _ you’re beautiful _ or  _ I think I might be in love with you. _ “What is this, twenty questions?”

“Please,” Enjolras sighs, looking like an odd cross between exasperated and desperate. “What about now?”

“You - you’re important to me.”

“You like me, then.”

“I love you.”

The words are out of Grantaire’s mouth before he can stop himself, and he stiffens sharply beneath Enjolras’ arm, praying for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. Enjolras is silent, worryingly so, and Grantaire opens his mouth to take back the statement or try to mend the situation as much as possible - but Enjolras speaks first.

“I don’t understand you,” he repeats, curving his lips around the words like a caress, unsure and hesitant but caring all the same. “But I think -” he breaks off, opening and closing his mouth for a second, searching for words. “I think it’s okay if you do - and if that’s the case it’s not okay for me to treat you like I did.”

“I told you, it’s -”

“It’s  _ not _ okay,” Enjolras cuts in viciously, and suddenly Grantaire is turning, Enjolras on his knees and gripping Grantaire’s arms like a lifeline. “You think so highly of me - I’m not a  _ god _ , Grantaire, I’m a person. I’m a person who fucked up and I’m trying my best to apologize if you’ll just hear me out.” Enjolras is rambling now, words falling unbidden from his lips, and Grantaire knows Enjolras probably isn’t in his right mind but he’s too entranced by Enjolras’ desperate words to care. “Don’t forgive me because you love me, Grantaire, or because you think you love me - I haven’t been good to you, I don’t know why you’re still here and you said you love me but I don’t even know how-- how I-- I think I could--”

And then Enjolras’ lips are on him, and all rational thought leaves Grantaire. He’s frozen stiff for a moment, eyes blown wide and staring at Enjolras’ closed eyelids and soft blonde eyelashes; he regains consciousness when Enjolras pulls back, parting his lips and sending a hot puff of air over Grantaire’s skin. He looks unsure, unsteady, staring across at Grantaire like  _ he’s _ done something wrong by trying to kiss Grantaire, when nothing could be further from the truth. 

Grantaire doesn’t know how to put that thought into words, so he simply pulls Enjolras closer, their bodies slotting together as though they were molded to fit against each other, destined, fated to meet one day. He fits his lips roughly against Enjolras’ and tugs the hair tie from his golden curls, feeling them cascade over Enjolras’ shoulders as he runs shaking fingers through them. Enjolras makes a quiet, needy noise against him, shifting on his knees until he’s nearly straddling Grantaire; and he’s never believed in heaven but Grantaire is certain that if it exists, it can’t be much different than this.

Enjolras kisses the same way he preaches - passionate and fiery, like every second is his last. He bruises Grantaire’s lips, tugging them between his teeth and biting down softly before smoothing over the stinging skin with his tongue. Grantaire is lost in the feeling of Enjolras on him, soft lips on his own and the heady taste of Enjolras’ kisses, the curls tangled in his fingers and the shallow rise and fall of Enjolras’ chest pressed against him - he isn’t sure just what he had expected coming home tonight, but it wasn’t this.

Enjolras makes another needy, broken sound, and all Grantaire can bring himself to do is pull Enjolras fully on top of him, fitting their bodies together like this is where the two of them have always belonged, like there’s nowhere else in the world for them to be but here, two stars colliding atop the roof of a dusty, run-down apartment complex as the night slowly gives way to the morning.

 

They stay like that until the sun peeks over the horizon, a soft morning blue filling the sky above them, and as the empty streets below begin to fill with cars and passersby, Grantaire follows Enjolras once again, descending the rickety fire escape with their hands linked loosely. He’s exhausted, he hasn’t slept in nearly a full day, but he still hesitates when they reach the window of his living room, not entirely willing to let go of Enjolras’ hand. Enjolras must realize this, because he hesitates as well, looking down between their linked hands and into Grantaire’s window.

“...You could come over?” he says, hesitantly, and when Grantaire nods a smile as bright as the rising sun spreads over his beautiful face.

They climb back into Grantaire’s apartment silently, Grantaire taking a moment to shed his clothes in favor of something more comfortable, and Enjolras is still waiting in his living room when he emerges, Grantaire’s torn sketchbook pages unfolded once again. He looks up when the door opens, that same breathtaking smile still in place, and carefully folds the drawings again before beckoning Grantaire to follow him out into the hallway. 

They enter Enjolras’ apartment together - Grantaire has never seen it before, but somehow nothing comes as a surprise to him. It’s neat, just as tidy as he would expect, but in one corner sits a desk overflowing with folders, notebooks, and loose-leaf papers. A half-empty pot of coffee sits in the kitchen, but Enjolras steadfastly ignores it despite the stovetop clock blinking back an accusatory  _ 5:43. _ Instead, he takes Grantaire’s hand again, leading him back through the hallways into the bedroom, kissing him gently in the doorway of the room Grantaire has only ever known from behind a wall.

  
They fall asleep tangled together, soft breaths mixing in the air between them, as the city beyond the bedroom walls wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is coming to a close pretty soon, i'm almost sad to see the end of it in sight :( three or so chapters left, depending on whether or not i split up any of the planned plot. huge thanks to everyone who's stuck with this fic so far, you guys all inspire me to keep writing.
> 
> that said, for any of you who read my end notes, ive got a little poll for the next fic you guys want me to write, i've got a few au's but i cant decide which one to go with! so, drop me an ask [here on tumblr](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com/ask) or comment down below with the au you want to see next:
> 
> anastasia au, rockstar au, dance au (ballerina enjolras and street dancer grantaire), or pre-revolution french court au (nobleman enjolras and bastard prince grantaire)!
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are much appreciated, and you can always find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this chapter is the softest and purest thing ive ever written, im crying
> 
> enjoy!

Grantaire wakes that afternoon to sunlight streaming harshly through Enjolras’ bedroom window, the warm weight of Enjolras’ body draped over his own and the soft puffs of Enjolras’ breath against his neck. He blinks his eyes open  slowly, taking in the image of the blonde man fast asleep, pillowed against his chest - last night feels like a fever dream, like a wish taken too far, but with Enjolras tangibly here, fitted against him and softer in sleep than Grantaire has ever seen him awake, he’s forced to grapple with the reality of everything that had happened on the rooftop.

_ I love you _ rings in his head, threatening to drag up a sickening guilt, but the impending panic is drowned out fully by the memory of Enjolras’ lips on his, of a soft body molded against his own in much the same way as it is now. Softly, Grantaire brings a hand up to stroke Enjolras’ cheek, watching his long eyelashes flutter and still at the contact. Blue eyes open, soft and unfocused in sleep, and a slow smile works its way onto Enjolras’ face as he looks up at Grantaire.

“You stayed,” he says simply, multitudes of emotion fit into two mumbled, sleep-thick words.

“You let me.” Grantaire looks past Enjolras’ messy halo of curls to check the time - nearly three in the afternoon. He shuts his eyes for a moment, he can’t remember if he had anything important scheduled. “I should probably go, though -”

“What? Why?” Enjolras scrambles to a sitting position, reaching almost instinctively for Grantaire’s hand. “Did I do something -”

“No, no, not at all,” Grantaire reassures him, placing a soft kiss against his forehead and silently marveling at the way it makes Enjolras’ eyes fall shut contentedly and smooths out the worried crease in his brow. “I should probably fix my room, though, and I need to get to work on some of the paintings I have due in class soon.”

Enjolras’ face falls, but he doesn’t look too put out - he simply sighs and burrows down further into the blanket, lifting Grantaire’s hand to press a chaste kiss to his wrist before letting go. “Call me when you’re done,” he says, closing his eyes once again, “and I’ll pose for your paintings, if you want me to.” He’s asleep again before Grantaire can reply, looking even more tired than Grantaire feels, but when Grantaire bends to kiss his lips sweetly, Enjolras’ lips curve into a small smile.

He leaves quietly, padding across the hall barefoot, gingerly closing Enjolras’ apartment door before returning home, finally. The living room is left in much the same state it had been in the night before, and Grantaire sets to work discarding the scattered bottles and beer cans, gathering up his paints and depositing them neatly in his supply closet, stripping his mattress of its sheets and heaving it back into his bedroom. The work is quick and satisfying, the dust that had settled over his bedroom in disuse lifting as he opens the window and makes his bed. He drags the sheet off the painting of Enjolras in the corner but leaves it in its place, instead pulling the easel from beneath it and setting it up in the middle of his bedroom. When the room is clean enough, he knocks gently against the wall - Enjolras mumbles something unintelligible on the other side, and Grantaire can imagine him cocooned in his red sheets, lazily blinking his eyes open, catlike in his waking disorientation.

“Come over whenever you’re up,” he says, forming words around the grin settled permanently across his face. “The front door is open, just come in.”

“Coffee first,” Enjolras grumbles, after a series of meaningless, tired noises.

“Bring me some, at least.”

Enjolras makes another noise that Grantaire takes as an affirmation, followed by loud shuffling that’s either him wrapping himself back up in blankets or dragging himself unwillingly out of bed. There’s about ten minutes of silence - in which Grantaire definitely does  _ not _ make an attempt to find the most casually flirtatious position possible in his bedroom, not including the classic posing-on-the-bed-trick - before there’s the sound of a door opening and closing, heavy padded footsteps on the floor of his living room, and a quiet knock from the entryway of his bedroom. He looks up from his easel to see Enjolras leaning against the wood of the doorframe, two steaming mugs of coffee in hand, looking just as messy and tousled as he had been in bed. His eyes are unfocused, half-lidded and blinking sleepily at Grantaire, and it’s only after Grantaire smiles and waves him over that he comes in and hands over one cup of coffee.

“Working on something?” he slurs, sitting down on Grantaire’s bed and almost immediately curling up to tuck his bare feet under the covers. He’s so fucking  _ cute, _ and Grantaire takes a moment to stare at him in shock before responding - tired Enjolras is so much more than he had ever expected.

“Nothing specific,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee and groaning appreciatively. “God, you  _ made _ this?”

Enjolras shrugs, ducking his head, and Grantaire catches a hint of pink painted over his sharp cheekbones. “I  _ am  _ a barista, aren’t I?”

“I guess, if working twice a week and mostly behind the register to draw customers in with your good looks and boyish charm counts as being a barista.” Grantaire laughs, but the chuckle dies out as he remembers something Enjolras had said before, from the other side of the wall. “Hey, Enjolras?”

“Mhh?”

“When you took the job, you said it was because you liked a regular there, didn’t you?”

Enjolras looks confused, although that might just be his inability to properly process words in his half-asleep state. “...Yes?” he says slowly, as if it were a question.

“Do you still?” The words stick in his throat as he says them, his curiosity warring with his instinct to  _ not bring it up in case Enjolras comes to his senses and leaves. _

“What- yes, of course I do. Did you not get that?”

Grantaire’s stomach sinks. “So then, last night, was that- what happened with him?”

Enjolras blinks across at Grantaire, cocking his head and squinting. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you here, then, if you - well, you know.”

“Why am I-” Enjolras starts, and then his eyes widen almost comically. “Oh my  _ god, _ you  _ idiot.” _

“What?”

“It was  _ you, _ Grantaire,” he says emphatically, before curling over and breaking into a fit of giggles. “Did you think it was anyone else?”

“I- yes?” Grantaire says, still in a state of disbelief. “You didn’t even  _ know  _ me - I mean, I didn’t know you either, but at least you’re fucking beautiful so that kind of explains it -  _ oh my god, you were talking about me the whole time.” _

Enjolras flushes an alarming shade of red and buries his face in the covers. “Shit, I  _ was, _ wasn’t I?” he groans, more to himself than to Grantaire. “No chance you could just forget everything you heard?”

“You called me handsome, if I remember correctly,” Grantaire teases. “And  _ rugged, _ and  _ charming, _ and-”

Enjolras cries out pitifully and makes an admirable attempt at hiding himself underneath Grantaire’s blankets. “They were things Courfeyrac said, okay? He’s the one that got me thinking about you in the first pl-”

The sound of a knock against the front door of the apartment cuts off Enjolras’ words and Grantaire’s laughter. They look at each other, wide-eyed, as another knock reverberates through the apartment, followed by the sound of Courfeyrac’s voice.

“Grantaire? Are you in there?”

_ “Oh my god,” _ Enjolras whispers,  _ “they think you’re still mad at me.” _

_ Wait here, _ Grantaire mouths, before kissing him soundly and leaving the room. He shuts the door quietly behind him, raising his eyebrows teasingly at Enjolras before closing it. Courfeyrac knocks again, and as Grantaire reaches for the doorknob, he does his best to smooth his expression into one he might have worn if Enjolras had never been in his apartment in the first place.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are standing in the hallway when he opens the door, identical looks of worry on both their faces. Courfeyrac reaches forward to trap Grantaire in a tight hug, ruffling his hair and whispering an attempt at comforting words into his shoulder, while Combeferre stands at his side awkwardly, his hands stuck in his pockets and his bespectacled eyes looking into the living room warily.

“How are you holding up?” says Courfeyrac, pulling back to hold Grantaire at arm’s length and giving him a proper once-over.

“Better than expected, I think,” he replies, trying his best to keep the smile he’s hiding from fighting its way onto his face. “Just the usual, right?”

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” Combeferre says, pulling his eyes away from the living room to look Grantaire in the face. “He didn’t mean it, not really - I’m sure someone else has talked some sense into him by now.”

“Has anyone else even seen him?” asks Courfeyrac. “Have you?”

Holding back the smile is growing harder by the second. “He wasn’t home when I got here,” Grantaire says, which isn’t  _ technically _ a lie - Enjolras wasn’t in his own apartment, and he doesn’t need to tell them Enjolras was still in his, although Combeferre looks a little skeptical.  _ Right, _ he remembers,  _ Combeferre came to pick him up. _ Hastily retracing his steps, he adds, “I’m sure he stormed out right after I did.”

“Are you okay?” Courfeyrac repeats. “Do you need anything from us? Food, cuddles, a movie night - oh, a  _ movie night!” _

“I don’t think-” Grantaire starts, but Courfeyrac cuts him off. 

“It’s already done, R. Do you want us to call Eponine? Where do you keep your movies?” He walks past Grantaire and into the living room, pulling Combeferre along by the wrist. Combeferre, at least, has the presence of mind to look apologetic as he’s hauled bodily into the apartment. “You check the bedroom, ‘Ferre, I’ll check the living room. Grantaire, you just sit down on the couch and wait for us, okay?”

Panic starts to well up in Grantaire’s stomach, growing exponentially when Courfeyrac pushes Combeferre towards the bedroom door and begins to sort through the cabinets underneath Grantaire’s beat-up old TV. Grantaire can only watch, horrified, as Combeferre reaches for the doorknob and twists it, pushing the door open to look in through the open doorway - and freezes. He blinks once, twice, looks back at Grantaire, then back into the room. Stiffly, as though he’s been frozen in place, he pulls the door shut again and does a neat about-face.

“Courfeyrac, we’re leaving.”

“What? I just found Hercules-”

“We’re  _ leaving. _ ” Combeferre strides forward, long legs carrying him into the center of the living room, and he tugs Courfeyrac up by the arm and all but pushes him towards the front door.

“Wait, ‘Ferre- why are we- But Grantaire-”

“Let’s  _ go.” _

As Combeferre hauls Courfeyrac back out of the apartment, he casts a look over his shoulder that Grantaire can only classify as  _ I fucking knew it. _

 

Enjolras stays frozen in place on Grantaire’s bed, half-buried underneath his covers, until he hears the front door close and Grantaire hesitantly opens the door to the bedroom. They stare at each other for a few seconds, absolutely silent - and then break down into fits of laughter. Enjolras hold his stomach, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes as he watches Grantaire double over, one hand on his knee and the other clutching the doorframe to keep him upright. He’s struck with the realization that this is  _ real,  _ this is happening, he’s in his pajamas in Grantaire’s bed and they’re both happy and laughing and there’s nowhere he’d rather be, even after being found out by Combeferre. He’ll have to figure out what to do with that later, if he doesn’t want the news getting out to Courfeyrac - he’s not even sure what to classify his and Grantaire’s relationship as now, he certainly doesn’t want Courfeyrac telling the whole world they’re sleeping together or - or  _ boyfriends _ or anything, even though the thought of that word alone sends waves of butterflies coursing through his stomach.

He can deal with that later, though. For now, he simply beckons Grantaire over, propping himself up on his elbows and nodding towards the canvas. He tilts his head up for a kiss as Grantaire makes his way over, his eyes falling shut at the soft, sweet pressure of Grantaire against him, half-mourning the loss when Grantaire pulls away to tuck a stray blonde curl back behind his ear.

“You were going to paint me?” Enjolras says.

“I was going to paint you,” echoes Grantaire.

_ Boyfriend or not, _ Enjolras thinks as Grantaire settles in behind the canvas, pulling a case of paints and a cup full of brushes closer,  _ this is nothing short of perfect. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who voted on my next au, the poll is still open by the way! vote on whether you want me to write a rockstar au, an anastasia au, a dance au, or a pre-revolution french court au next! (also, if anyone is interested, i'm adding one more au to the list - reincarnation + boarding school!)
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are super super appreciated, and you can always find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire!](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note - this chapter is almost completely NSFW; if you want to avoid that, just skip down to where the epilogue starts ('three months later,' bolded and italicized)
> 
> this is the last chapter - enjoy!

“What do we tell them?” Grantaire asks Enjolras, after night has fallen and the canvas is put away half-painted. They’re tangled together in Grantaire’s bed, the warm weight of Grantaire’s arm pulling Enjolras close against the slow rise and fall of his chest. Grantaire noses softly at Enjolras’ neck, the stubble along his chin tickling Enjolras’ bare collarbone. As he speaks, he punctuates each of his words with soft kisses, the butterfly brush of lips against skin raising goosebumps along Enjolras’ arms. Enjolras feels a warm contentment settle in his chest, a gentle flame that doesn’t ignite so much as kindle reassurance in him, like a heavy blanket draped over his body, smothering the anxieties of the past few weeks.

“I love you,” Grantaire whispers into his neck, the words filtering through the silence like the ripples of still water being broken, a truth that scares Enjolras as much as it calms him. Three words. Three kisses, dotted along the curve where Enjolras’ neck meets his chin.

“I know,” Enjolras says, trying to identify the rush of heat that fills him head to toe - like fear, but warmer. Softer.

“You don’t have to say it back, you know.”

“I will when I can.” Somehow, he gets the feeling that he’s telling the truth. It isn’t a matter of  _ if, _ it’s a matter of  _ how long until. _

In lieu of giving an answer, Grantaire simply brings a hand up to Enjolras’ face, stroking calloused and paint-stained fingertips across the soft skin of his cheek. His eyes are blue; so, so blue. On a whim, Enjolras tilts his head, pressing his lips lightly against the pads of Grantaire’s fingers - he doesn’t pull away at the contact. Testing his boundaries, Enjolras looks Grantaire in the eyes, blinking slowly, and darts his tongue out from between his lips to lick at the tip of Grantaire’s thumb.

The effect is instantaneous. At once, Grantaire inhales sharply, his pupils blowing wide and his mouth falling open soundlessly. His hips twitch away from Enjolras, as if burned, and the slide of his legs against the insides of Enjolras’ thighs, so close to the crease of his pelvis, kindles a fire in Enjolras’ stomach that grows into rigid stiffness against his leg. Emboldened by the response, he closes his eyes, sucking Grantaire’s finger into his mouth up to the first knuckle, sweeping his tongue across the tip again and drinking in the broken moan that falls from Grantaire’s kiss-bruised lips. The sound brings him back to a night weeks before, sitting on the other side of the wall at his back, completely silent as Grantaire fell to pieces under his own hand, brought himself off wantonly on this very bed. He grinds his hips up against Grantaire’s, relishing in the flare of heat and lust that sears its way up his spine, coiling hot in the pit of his stomach at the friction. Grantaire is fully hard, thick and hot and pulsing where he’s nestled into the dip of Enjolras’ pelvis, and when Enjolras opens his eyes again Grantaire looks  _ desperate, _ his pupils blown wide and glazed over. Enjolras’ name falls from his lips reverently, a prayer that Enjolras is sure could bring him to godhood with the devotion alone. Grantaire had always called him Apollo, after all.

“When you touch yourself, here,” Enjolras says, flipping them so he is straddling Grantaire’s hips and grinding down against him again - his voice is hoarse and worn, and Grantaire mutters a soft curse, his eyes rolling back to stare at the white ceiling above them as if the sight of Enjolras atop him is too much to bear. “You think of me, don’t you?”

“ _ Fuck, _ Enjolras.”

‘I’ve heard you, you know,” he confesses, ignoring the way Grantaire’s thighs tense in favor of rocking his hips in a constant, teasingly slow rhythm that sets Grantaire’s fingers clutching wildly at the sheets. “Fucking your own hand, wishing it was me.”

“Christ, your mouth is filthy,” Grantaire laughs breathlessly. “Should have known you’d be good with words in bed.”

“Think about my mouth a lot, do you?”

“Only all the -  _ holy shit  _ \- all the fucking time.” Grantaire’s hands move up from Enjolras’ thighs to his waist, dipping his fingers beneath the hem of Enjolras’ loose shirt to ruck it up over his hips. Enjolras humors him, pulls the shirt off in one fluid motion, tossing it to the side and laughing teasingly at Grantaire’s whispered  _ “Jesus fuck.” _

“What do you want me to do?”

“I - what?”

Enjolras stills his hips, leaving Grantaire bucking against him to regain that friction. “Tell me what you thought about. That night - I heard you, I was across the wall.”

“God, don’t bring that -”

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Enjolras, you can’t just -” Grantaire breaks off, groaning into the arm thrown across his face as Enjolras reaches a hand down between them to palm his hard length through the thin pajama bottoms.

“Do you want me on top of you? Under you?”

“ _ Fuck, _ Enjolras,  _ anything.” _

Enjolras grips Grantaire firmly through the thin flannel, stroking him as much as he can with fabric between the two of them, and Grantaire’s hips cant up of their own volition to meet his touch. “You have to talk to me, Grantaire.”

Grantaire groans, brokenly, and forces out a choked, “Wanna  _ feel _ you, Enjolras.”

Enjolras smiles devilishly at that, rolling his hips sensuously against Grantaire’s and admiring the way it makes Grantaire seem to fall apart underneath him, moaning curses and praises and Enjolras’ name. He’s beautiful, Enjolras realizes, rugged and wild and everything Courfeyrac had said he would be that first fateful day months before - but underlying that is a softness that Enjolras has never seen in him, a gentle warmth that juxtaposes every one of Grantaire’s rough edges, draping itself over Enjolras like a shroud of calm, of peace and love; and Enjolras understands.

_ This is what it’s like to be loved by Grantaire. _

He bends down to kiss Grantaire, sweetly, lovingly, so overcome by the tenderness in Grantaire’s eyes that he can hardly bear to look at them any longer. With the press of lips on lips, the last of the fight drains out of him, the last of the teasing, unsure atmosphere that had kept him from shedding layers like a butterfly’s chrysalis at the first touch of Grantaire’s fingers against his skin.

Grantaire seems aware of the change, too - he props himself up on his elbows, furrowing his brow at Enjolras. “Is everything -” he starts, but Enjolras shushes him, capturing his lips, swallowing the rest of his sentence as it fades into a contented hum. With their lips still connected, the kiss still sending waves of warmth coursing through Enjolras’ chest, he rolls over, locking his arms and legs around Grantaire and pulling him along, until he feels his back hit the bed and his head comes to rest against Grantaire’s pillow. Everything he feels, everything he tastes and sees and breathes is Grantaire, from the warm weight between his thighs to the rasp of stubble against his chin to the fabric of Grantaire’s shirt twisted in his hands - with a gentle tug, he coaxes it off Grantaire, and marvels at the hard planes of the bare chest under his splayed fingers.

Finally,  _ finally _ responding, he blinks owlishly up at Grantaire, running one hand through his dark curls and the other tracing patterns in the soft skin at his hip. “So feel me,” he says, spreading his legs wider, soft and inviting, and the way Grantaire falls between them with a sigh is pure, unadulterated bliss.

 

Enjolras is perfection beneath him, his body responsive to every reverent touch Grantaire dares to steal - he kisses down the length of Enjolras’ neck and Enjolras tips his head to allow Grantaire more access, he mouths at the ridge of Enjolras’ collarbone and is met with breathy sighs and long, delicate fingers curled in his hair. He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve this, something so beautiful, so divine, but he’s never been one to question the gifts he’s given. Instead, he flicks his tongue over the pink bud of Enjolras’ nipple, relishing the keening, needy noise it draws from his beautiful lips.

Lavishing affection over the contours of Enjolras’ chest, he coaxes Enjolras’ hips up to pull the loose pants over his hips, discarding them in some unseen direction as he lets his mouth travel lower - to kiss the skin over his sternum, peppering alternating pecks and nips along the ridges of his ribcage, nosing at the fine dusting of hair between the vee of his pelvis before finally, reverently,  _ blissfully _ taking Enjolras’ hard length in hand. He presses a soft kiss to the leaking crown, earning himself a wanton, punched out moan from Enjolras, and hands fly to tangle themselves in his hair, pulling softly.

He doesn’t hesitate, taking Enjolras into his mouth to the root, hollowing his cheeks and sucking softly at the cock in his mouth. Enjolras is moaning above him, rambling nonsensically, no longer pulling at his hair but simply clenching and unclenching his fingers as if he’s lost all capacity to do anything else. Around Grantaire, Enjolras’ thighs fall apart to spread completely open, and Grantaire pulls one leg up to rest atop his shoulder. The warm weight of it keeps him grounded, the thick, heavy taste of Enjolras on his tongue like the nectar of the gods. He bobs his head experimentally, focusing less on technique and more on the way pressing the flat of his tongue against Enjolras’ shaft draws out quiet mewls of pleasure, while drawing his head off and sucking at the crown makes Enjolras cry out in pleasure, thrashing his head wildly on the pillow and clutching the sheets and Grantaire’s hair like a lifeline.

It’s not long before Enjolras is sobbing out his name, spilling hot, coursing waves of bitter release down Grantaire’s throat, coming down off his high with a heaving chest and  _ Grantaire, Grantaire, Grantaire _ falling from his lips like a prayer. He clutches at Grantaire’s shoulders, pulling him up to kiss him firmly, passionately, wildly despite his own taste lingering on Grantaire’s tongue and teeth. He seems unbothered by it, hardly refusing to break the kiss despite pushing desperately at Grantaire’s own waistband.

“You don’t have to-”

“Want you  _ inside me,” _ Enjolras says, like every second his skin isn’t against Grantaire’s is physically excruciating. At his words, Grantaire has to bit down on his lip, clenching the bedsheets in a white-knuckled fist to keep from spilling right then.

“Enjolras, you need rest,” he forces out.

“I need you to  _ fuck _ me.”

_ Christ. _ Grantaire surges forward to capture Enjolras’ lips again, his hands joining Enjolras’ at his waist, shedding the last of his clothes eagerly. He goes to reach for himself, to edge off the overwhelming arousal and keep himself from spilling the minute he’s inside Enjolras - but before he can, Enjolras captures both his wrists and rolls him deftly onto his back.

“Don’t,” he says, a single word with enough meaning and intent behind it for Grantaire to lose all sense of rational thought, unable to do anything but nod at Enjolras dumbly as he leans over to rifle through Grantaire’s drawers.

“Top left,” Grantaire says, voice hoarse and broken, and Enjolras makes a soft  _ a-ha _ of victory before sitting back up, lube and foil-packaged condom in hand. “Let me-”

_ “Don’t.” _

Before Grantaire can argue, Enjolras is shuffling further down the bed, seating himself between Grantaire’s legs and bending over to lick tentatively at the head of his cock. Grantaire stifles his groan with a fist pressed to his mouth, biting down on the skin of a knuckle to keep himself from crying out. Enjolras licks at him again before swallowing him down, his kiss-bruised lips forming a perfect red O around his length - and with his head down and his shoulders bent, Grantaire can see the curve of his hips, the bend of his back and the hand reached behind him, fucking two slicked fingers into himself. It’s all Grantaire can do to keep from giving into the pooling heat in his gut, and he pushes desperately at Enjolras’ shoulder. “Fuck, Enjolras, I’m gonna-  _ shit-” _

Enjolras releases him with a smirk, letting Grantaire fall from his lips, the sensitive head of Grantaire’s cock brushing against Enjolras’ bottom lip and the curve of his chin before falling to rest, hard and leaking, against his stomach. Without his mouth filled, Grantaire can see the way Enjolras’ face twists in pleasure as he fingers himself, small needy noises filling the thick air between them. After what seems like hours of torturously watching Enjolras prepare himself, Grantaire feels a hand push gently at his shoulder, and he falls back against the pillows, eyes wide as he watches Enjolras position himself above his hips, grasping the base of Grantaire’s cock to roll on the condom and line himself up - and in one clean move, he seats himself completely around Grantaire.

It’s heaven. Enjolras is searingly hot, wet and impossibly tight around Grantaire, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint Grantaire possesses not to start fucking up into Enjolras. It doesn’t take long, though, after a few moments of Enjolras adjusting to the size of Grantaire in him, he begins to set a wild pace, bracing himself with both hands splayed across Grantaire’s chest as he pushes himself up to drop back down on the length of Grantaire’s cock. He’s beautiful, divine as he fucks himself on Grantaire, throwing his head back and moaning Grantaire’s name like a prayer. He brings a hand up to grasp himself, jerking himself off in time with the rise and fall of his hips until he’s spilling over his fingers for the second time, hot release coating Grantaire’s stomach, and the rhythmic flutter of his muscles around Grantaire is too much, too much to handle and moments later, Grantaire is following him over the edge into bliss.

 

They come down slowly, Enjolras rolling over to lay at Grantaire’s side and Grantaire picking up a discarded shirt to clean the two of them off with. Enjolras is exhausted, eyes half-lidded and fixed, unfocused, on Grantaire.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. A statement, a fact.

“I love you,” Grantaire replies.

“I know,” says Enjolras. “I think I could love you too.”

 

 

**_Three months later._ **

Enjolras makes his way through the crowd at the front of the building, craning his neck for any sign of Grantaire. He sees Courfeyrac first, an arm looped through Jehan’s, the other lifted and waving in greeting. 

“Have you seen-”

“Grantaire? He’s inside already, someone’s asking to buy his work.”

Enjolras nods a thank you, sparing a smile for Jehan as he pushes through the masses of people to reach the west end of the gallery. He passes familiar faces - Marius and Cosette, talking animatedly to another artist, Combeferre and Eponine making their way out from the center of the crowds - and eventually spots a head of untameable dark curls at the far end of the hall. He dashes over as quickly as he can with dozens of  gallery-goers in his way, trying his best to slow his heaving breath as he reaches Grantaire, who seems to be arguing with someone else.

“It’s not for sale, sir, I’ve already told-”

“I’ll pay two thousand.”

“Two _ thousand?” _

Enjolras slows to a stop next to Grantaire, placing his palm against the small of Grantaire’s back as much in greeting as to calm him down.

“It’s still not for sale, sir.”

“Which one?” Enjolras asks. The man turns to look at him, eyes widening in recognition.

“I- I see,” he stammers, looking between Enjolras and Grantaire. “Thank you for your time, sir.” He takes off, hurrying away through the crowd until all Enjolras can see of him is a brown coat amid a sea of people.

“What did he want?”

Grantaire smiles, nodding towards a painting neatly framed on the wall. It’s the picture of Enjolras, rendered in loving reds and golds, signed  _ R _ in neat white at the bottom.

“I wouldn’t let him,” Grantaire says with a smile. “That one’s yours, and only yours.”

Enjolras is filled with a rush of warmth, of fondness, of  _ love _ for this cynical, drunken artist that had wormed his way into his life with a cup of coffee and a single comment through the wall of an apartment. Grantaire was his inevitable, his beginning, middle, and end - Grantaire was beautiful and incredible and the one thing that mattered most.

“I love you,” he breathes, leaning up on his toes to kiss Grantaire, the crowd parting for them, the very world beneath their feet halting its ceaseless spin for the press of Enjolras’ lips against Grantaire’s.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. it's finally done. huge huge huge thanks to all my readers, both those of you who have stuck with me since the beginning and those who picked up halfway through and binge read the entire thing (readers after my own heart).
> 
> special shoutouts: to commenters slumpybearblynn, who has stuck with me since the start of this fic and never failed to lift my spirits with their wonderful comments, and to Taxicab, who has not only inspired me to keep writing, but has also influenced a small part of this story with their suggestions - thank you two so much for your dedication to my story, having readers like you means the world to writers like me. to marco and snow, who have refused to let me abandon this story and continued to support my writing despite not knowing anything about les mis - i couldn't ask for better best friends.
> 
> and to the rest of you, whether you're reading this for the first time or the second, whether you read it the night after i post this update or years after the fact - thank you. from the bottom of my heart, thank you.
> 
> quick results from the poll - french court au won out, and i'll be submitting it to the les mis across history fan week in july (but until then, you can all read the updates here on ao3!) so keep an eye out for that!
> 
> i'll skip the usual kudos and comments note, and you know where to find me.
> 
> until next time,  
> persephone

**Author's Note:**

> as always, kudos and comments are my lifeblood. find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


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